Hamish, the invisible boy
by Aurora-swan
Summary: John tries very hard not to live in fear and to does everything he can to keep his family safe from harm. Then things take a bad turn. Hamish possesses something every criminal mind wants, he's the only one who can give it to them, and everything started with Mycroft being the babysitter. Parentlock. First attempt of a crime-fic so be gentle with me. Kidnapping, violence, sickfic.
1. The doctor, the detective, the boy

**So here it begins, I have no idea how long it's gonna be. But it all began in the middle of november...**

**This chapter is updated and search through for errors by my lovely BETA Cashewkitty. Lots of thanks and kisses to her! **

* * *

John sat tapping the keyboard furiously; it seemed writing in anger was the new therapy whenever Sherlock was being a dick, as usual. Said man groaned and pulled his hair by the roots, jumping up onto the sofa and curling up like an upset ten-year-old.

"Bored?" John asked, stopping his fingers for a moment.

"Good deduction..."

It was no use, why did he even try to pick up the conversation from before? His gaze turned to the window, which was covered in snowy rain, just serving to make this day even more horrible. Then he remembered that Hamish had a long walk home, without so much as a raincoat.

A good excuse to leave Sherlock to his thoughts.

"You'll have to scream at the wall for awhile," John called out, already up and reaching for his jacket hanging over the floor lamp. "I'm meeting Hamish."

"Why?" the detective exclaimed in annoyance. "He prefers to walk alone."

It was true, and even if he was way too young to be doing such things, the pair both knew that Mycroft was always watching, so Hamish was safe enough. He enjoyed the solitary walk home, understandably, for the time alone after an awful day. Which was every day. When it came to school, Hamish had a distinct lack of friends, not to mention the teachers all despised him for his massive intellect. And, the school psychologist was an idiot, according to him. She had always asked stupid questions, but these last couple of weeks she seemed to have given up on her lousy facade of trying to help him, and the hours were now passed simply sitting quietly. facing each other in their respective armchairs. Hamish had told John about all of this, who had decided that they should keep this a secret from Sherlock for now, just until he had a case to relax on.

John reached for the umbrella resting in its stand just as he felt something hit him in the back. A glossy magazine hit the floor and he turned around to Sherlock, staring at him in anger.

"Don't you dare ignore me!"

John picked up the magazine, turning it over in his hands to see the easily recognizable image of his husband in a deerstalker.

"Sherlock, you need to calm yourself. And don't throw things at me!" He knew that he also needed to keep himself calm, but right now John just wanted to punch the taller man in the face.

"Calm down!?" Sherlock shouted incredulously and jumped up off the couch, stepping agilely over the coffee table to reach his desk. Soon, papers and files were flying through the air, making the snowy rain outside seem more tempting than staying the storm inside.

"No... Sherlock! Don't you even!" John shouted back, making his way across to Sherlock.

"I need it, John."

The desk was being taken apart in whole drawers now, tossing with it a package of paper clips, which landed and burst at John's feet, exploding in a colorful show of metal and plastic. John bit down on the flesh in his cheeks, struggling to keep down the growing ball of reciprocated anger in his chest.

"You're doing really well, don't spoil it now!"

The detective payed no mind to this comment, simply shouting back "Where are they!?" He was crawling around on the floor, lean limbs moving like a cat with an itch, checking the sofa, chairs, and every other piece of furniture in the room. What he didn't know was that John had never even bought any emergency cigarettes this time, he was simply watching the show, knowing the man could look forever and never find anything.

"Yeah..." John groaned and buttoned his jacket, and readied himself for an escape for his husband began to beg. "I'll be back in twenty." He shut the door quickly and hurried down the stairs to the corridor, which was currently overrun by the decorators Mrs. Hudson had hired to change the wallpapers. _About time_ was John's thought, thinking of the many years he had spent passing by bloodstains and nail scrapings instead.

"Popping out, Mrs. Hudson!" She jumped a bit at his voice, purple dress swaying at her ankles as she spun around to greet him. As always, she carried a wonderful smile on her brightly painted lips.

"You meeting Hamish?" she asked lovingly, pushing the dyed hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah." he groaned. The woman had always been able to read him like a book. John loved the way he never needed to tell her anything, she always just now.

"Domestic again?" she asked, turning her head as John stepped of the stairs and stopped before her.

"Could you please keep an eye on him? He's at it again. Please call me if he leaves the flat." He felt Mrs. Hudson place a hand on his shoulder as comfort, eyes earnest and full of pity.

"He'll come around," she said. "Soon a nice murder will cheer him up."

"Yes, I know." he sighed with a smile and patted her back.

"JOHN!?" The workers turned when they heard the scream, and John frowned as he made himself ready to run.

"Need to go." he said, almost in a whisper, and Mrs Hudson pushed him out the door before Sherlock made it down the stairs.

* * *

The rain was still pouring hard and it had begun to pool beneath John's feet. _Poor Hamish must be soaked by now. _The phone in his pocket buzzed for the third time since leaving the flat, and with a sigh John fished the old thing out and read the most recent message.

_We need to talk. MH_

He placed it back in his pocket and instinctually glanced upwards, to be greeted with the familiar sight of the street camera across the road following him. With a shake of his head, he carried on walking down the street. The phone soon buzzed again, and this time it was ignored, John simply quickening his pace at the realization that he should have met Hamish by now. He was more than half-way to the school by this point. Had Hamish taken another route?

His phone rang again, and John didn't bother to suppress a loud groan upon answering it.

"Yes, hello?" he sighed into the receiver, expecting the lazy voice of Mycroft. To his surprise, he was greeted by a much crisper voice, that of a man who hated to use the phone for making calls.

"John?"

"You're calling? You never call." The corners of John's lips were threatening to lift into a smile as he listened to the silence on the other end. John stopped in the middle of the street, rather abruptly, and asked "You okay?"

Two seconds of silence were followed by the detective clearing his throat, and a statement John hardly ever heard.

"I'm sorry."

The doctor was left speechless for a moment, in shock over the words he'd just heard from his ever-stoic husband, as his heart began to race.

"Really?" he responded happily, beginning to walk again.

"Yes. I treated you badly, and I'm sorry." John felt his heart skip a beat with every word, as the fight from earlier faded from his memory.

"In the future, just don't throw things at me. Alright?" Even if he couldn't distinguish it, he knew that Sherlock was snickering on the other line. "Hey, can you call if Hamish turns up? I haven't met him yet."

"Really? Should I be worried?" He asked because he didn't know, as always Sherlock was clueless when it came to emotions.

"No, not yet." John answered, and stumbled slightly, causing him to bump into a rather large passing man. He lost his footing and watched as his phone fell into a nearby puddle. Dirty water splashed onto his shoes and the ankles of his jeans, and he didn't have to get any closer to know the thing was ruined.

"Ah, jeez." John muttered in anger as he reached down for the device. It was lying screen-down to the pavements, and as he flipped it over in his hands, it gave a dying flash before going dark.

"Daddy?" A familiar voice called out, and John looked up to see the face of his seven-year-old son, dark hair plastered against his pale skin and striking blue eyes.

"Hamish." he cheered, pulling the boy into a hug, as he was still crouched. His embrace was returned, with a loving squeeze, leaving John thouroughly soaked. "Oh, Jesus, look at you. We need to get you home and in a warm bath before you catch a cold." He stood up, and Hamish gripped his hand steadily as he joined his father under the umbrella, feeling more than pleased to get out of the heavy rain.

"What are you doing here?" Hamish asked, in a rather nasty, albeit inadvertant, tone. "I mean, you never meet me normally." he added hastily.

John grinned down at him, watching the water droplets fall from the ends of his hair and the tip of his nose. "I needed to get out of the flat for a while." The boy closed his eyes in response, which John sadly recognized as the fact that Hamish was clearly anticipating an angry father back home. "But don't worry, I think he calmed himself down. He called and apologized, can you believe that?" His son clearly couldn't, lifting his head to meet John's gaze.

It was at that point that the elder first noticed Hamish's swollen eyes, instantly alighting his paternal instincts as he reached the logical conclusion; Hamish had been crying.

"Hamish... what's wrong?" The father asked tenderly, but couldn't even get the question out before his son turned his gaze back to his feet. John stopped, but the boy kept on walking, pulling at his father's arms. "Hamish?"

"Daddy!" Hamish shouted indignantly. "It's raining, I'm freezing, and I wanna go home."

Recognizing a lost cause when he saw one (He'd been married to Sherlock for quite some time now.) John laid the matter to rest, for the time being, and continued on with his son.

"Okay, let's get home before Dad tears the flat apart to get his cigarettes." Hamish smiled in response, his brightness surprising and delighting John, as his son put his hand down John's pocket for warmth.

"There are none to be found, right?"

John answered with a smirk and a nod. His son understood. After all, he was a very clever little boy.

* * *

"We're back!" John shouted, taking Hamish's wet jacket in his hands. The storm that John had so gladly left inside had calmed in his absence, but left the flat in a most disturbing state. The mess all over the floor, and every surface, reallym would probably have given poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack upon seeing it, if she had decided to make her way up here.

It had been many years since Sherlock had made such a rave over cigarettes. The man himself laid on his stomach on the couch, face buried in the pillow, and still in his night clothes. "I'm going to go run a bath for you. Are you hungry?"

"No." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, causing gigles from both Hamish and John.

"I was talking to Hamish," John smirked, watching the ears of the lazy detective turn pink.

"We need to shop." was Sherlock's only response, earning a groan from John, who was not in the mood to step out again in this weather.

"You couldn't have said that _before_ we got home? We walked right past the shop." Sherlock finally sat up and turned around to face John, dark curls hiding his features.

"I called you. You didn't answer."

John then remembered the earlier incident, and full of dread, retrieved his phone from his pocket. "Oh... yeah," John sighed, trying and failing to turn the devide on. "I dropped it, it's dead... Can't you go?"

John was cut short as he noticed the shivering eminating from the small boy to his left, trembling from the cold, teeth chattering.

"Jesus, Hamish, let's get you warm." He bent over and picked up his son - with difficulty; he was seven, although John seemed to forget this at times - and carried him into the bathroom. "I'll wrap you up in some towels until the bath is ready, alright?

The towels where newly washed, hanging over the heated rack and Hamish disappeared in the soft fabric as he stood on the middle of the floor. A warm mist covered the room as the hot water filled the tub and John rubbed his son to get the warmth back into him.

"I want bubbles." he stammered, causing John to grin.

"Of course." he said, and pulled the shirt off his son's head. "Bubbles are mandatory, aren't they?" Hamish nodded, jumping where he stood to get his blood flowing again, pants made heavy by water falling to his feet, before getting in the now full tub. It didn't take long before he was covered in hot water and bubbles, making bubble beards and bubble wigs while John emptied the washing machine, keeping him company.

"Daddy?" he said, breaking the comfortable silence as he looked up at him from the tub. In response, John was met by a face that make his heart break. The bubble wig flowed down the boy's cheeks and he stared into the water with emotionless eyes. "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?" The words reminded him of the sad face his son had been wearing earlier, and he came over, letting out a deep breath through his nose and kneeling beside the tub.

"What happened earlier today? Was someone at school mean to you?" Hamish just shook his head and concentrated on the mountain of bubbles. He swallowed, and let out a small tremble, no longer from the cold, but out of sorrow.

"It's just... Mrs. Tennant wants me to play wiith the others, but I... I don't really want to." he stammered sadly, John's eyebrows knitting together in response.

"Why not?" he asked, and cupped his hands under the water to wash the soap from Hamish's hair. "Don't you like them?" All he got in way of acknowledgement was a small shake of the boy's head, accompanied by a sudden sneeze. "Bless you."

"It's not that they're mean to me. I just want to read and some of my classmates can't do that yet so no one understands my interest in books, I have nothing in common with anyone. They avoid me and I avoid them, but Mrs. Tennant wanted me to stop reading during recess and play, so she took my book." John twitched.

"She took your book?" Hamish nodded and was a bit surprised by his daddy's reaction. His blue-green eyes pierced and John could see the small ounce of fright.

"Why?"

"She said I could have it back by the end of the day." John shook his head in disbelief, as he washed his son's dark hair, and felt a hatred start to grow in his gut.

"Then what have you been doing all day?" he asked and Hamish shrugged his thin shoulders. John knew there was something he wasn't telling him. "Hamish?"

"She tried to force me into some game with the others. I was planning to escape when she wasn't looking but... she just stood there. Guarding me like a dog, and when I didn't participate she told me what to do, even if I didn't want to do it." A knot was tightly tied in John's stomach, as he wondered how someone could treat his son this way.

"Like what?" he inquired, and bit down hard in an effort to control the growing rage that he knew scared little Hamish.

"She forced me to hunt the others while playing tag. I hated it, Daddy." he said, and his chin began to tremble. "Imagine, being forced to run after people that you don't like and knowing that they don't like you. She wanted me to have fun but... it was the worst thing that has ever happened to me." Even if his face was wet by the bathwater, John could see the tears falling down those blushing cheeks. It was heartbreaking, awful to see him like this and John didn't know what he could to to comfort him, his own son.

"Oh Hamish..." he sighed and cradled his son's head to his shoulder. The wet hair soaked his shirt, but he didn't care one bit. "That wont happen again, I'll make sure of it. And Mrs. Tennant will never take your book again. Of course you're aloud to read during recess."

His son never cried out loud. He hadn't heard him sob since he was four. When he was sad, tears would stream down his face, and were sometimes sometimes punctauated with an occasional sniffle, but never a sob or an agonising cry.

That was the worst part of seeing his son cry. It was like the boy wanted to keep his sorrow secret, and John just wished that he would scream and shout sometimes.

"Promise?"

John nodded assuringly, and kissed away his son's salty tears.

"I promise." After a few seconds of hurtful tears, Hamish smiled again, and sniffled. He had put the awful event behind him and John was a little worried that he'd inherited Sherlock's ability to delete things he didn't want to remember. It was never a good thing to put things behind oneself so quickly.

"Does dad have time to read to me today?" he asked when John wrapped him in a new towel.

"I think so. You should choose something very intimidating, he would like that, and make sure to ask him a lot of questions that he has to answer." Hamish giggled and nodded, tthe tears had long stopped running by now.

"Because dad is a showoff?" he asked, eliciting a small but relieved smirk from John.

"Because dad is a showoff."

* * *

He had stepped into his pyjamas, even if the evening was early. Hamish just loved to hop into them after a bath, and just like his dad he would walk around in them all day if he could. Said man was still on the sofa, kicking the cushions and tapping his fingers against his knees.

"Dad?" Sherlock opened his eyes one at a time, to see his son upside down, with the book in his hands.

"Not now." he grunted and closed them again. "I'm thinking."

"About what?" Hamish asked, determined to annoy his dad until he got what he wanted. Sherlock knew very well where this was going, and with a loud groan he sat up and pulled the book out of his hands. Quick as a cat, Hamish was in his lap, leaning against him with his hands inside Sherlock's silky robe for warmth. The detective sank further down in the seat, and took a look at the book.

"I don't understand why you want me to read to you, when daddy's better at making voices." Sherlock groaned, opening one of Hamish's favourite books, "The Jungle Book".

"Some books are better read with only one voice. Daddy has a tendency to ruin my imagination sometimes. Like when he read the story about the red eyed dragon,"

Sherlock snickered, knowing perfectly well that John listened to their conversation from the kitchen.

"And he made the dragon sound like a sick Anderson." the detective smirked. Hamish giggled and nodded, squeezing his hand around his father's thin waist and pressing his cheek to his chest.

"I'll never be able to read that book again without thinking about an idiot." he muttered in response.

Sherlock laughed and ruffled his hair, loving how his boy talked badly about the people he didn't like, but tried not to praise it. John didn't like it when Hamish did so.

The phone on the table buzzed and the detective tried to reach it with his foot, a mission with a bad ending as the pile of magazines slipped to the floor.

"John!" he shouted, and the doctor son emerged from the kitchen with the computer in his hands. "My phone." he finished simply.

The name on the screen blinked fanatically and John groaned when he saw it.

"It's your brother again. He's been trying to contact me all day." He opened the text.

_John. Important. Please contact me. MH_

"What does he want? And why doesn't he just call?"

"Maybe he's got too much cake in his mouth." Hamish said, causing Sherlock to burst into laughter.

But even if it was funny, and even if Sherlock didn't care, John didn't like it when Hamish talked bad about people.

"Be nice." he said with a smile, and Sherlock ruffled his hair again.

"That's my boy." he said, and started to look for the page they ended on last time. The doctor left the room with the phone in his hand and stepped into the kitchen. The computer was plugged in again and he sat down at the table to finish his post, but was interrupted with another buzz.

_Don't make me force you. MH_

John had had enough, and angrily tapped his brother-in-law's name in, lifting the phone to his ear. After two signals, someone picked up.

"Dr Watson." Of course he knew it was him, Mycroft knew everything.

"What is it, Mycroft?" he asked tiredly. "What's so important?"

"Why don't you step outside?"

"Because I'm not in the mood to get kidnapped today." John sighed, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"What if I said it's for your own good?"

"Is it?"

Mycroft simply hung up, and John slammed his head against the table. Whatever Mycroft had to say, it would end with John doing something stupid for him, even if he didn't really want to.

"How's dinner going!?" he heard Sherlock shout from the sitting room, and he groaned loudly into the newspaper under his face. Dinner, yes.

"Need to order take out! I'm going out!" The laptop turned off as he closed it and he gave his soaked jacket a quick shake.

"Mycroft summoned you?" Sherlock asked, without giving him as much as a glance.

"Yes." he sighed unhappily, and took a look out the window. Snowy rain was still falling.

He really didn't want to go out there, much less meet with Mycroft.

"I'll be back in an hour, perhaps." There wasn't much of an reaction from the two boys in the sofa with noses buried in the book. "Make sure you both eat something. I don't wanna come home to you both being cranky because you're hungry."

And with that he ran down the stairs, just hoping that this would be over quickly.

The black car pulled up by the curb the same second he stepped outside, and the driver stepped out to politely open his door. All was as expected.

"So, where are we off to this time?" John asked as he slid in on the seat next to Anthea, who, as always, gave him a wondering look, like she'd never seen him before. Why did he even bother to make small talk to this woman?

They drove off, passing the shops and restaurants of London and John roamed across the buildings, observing the "ordinary people" as Sherlock called them. The snowy rain flowed over the window and he traced the drops as they sort of crawled across the glass. Soon, the alleys between the buildings became sparser, like the city dissolved the closer you came to the edge off it. The groups of people lessened and they entered the old industrial area. Thick smoke raised to the already grey clouds above them as the chimneys spewed out the waste, and John felt his nose wrinkle. He didn't like this parts of town.

"Of all the places." he heard himself mumble as the car pulled over by a small office space that looked like a big shoe box fallen out of the sky and landed with a crash and bang on the concrete. He followed the Anthea-lady over the pavement full of dark puddles, minding his shoes, as he was secretly amazed how Anthea made her way with her eyes locked on the phone and waddling in high heels.

"Just through here." she said, and opened the door that made the same sound as a saxophone-solo from the 60th. "Down to the left."

He wondered if he should wait for her, see if she had any business with the man as well but she never so much as paid him a look. Bitting his bottom lip, irritation twitching at the corners, he entered the house. Dust of fallen paint and concrete had covered the plastic floors and he made sure not to drag his feet in the awful mess. The air was filled with the smell of pollution, strong enough to sting his sinuses and he couldn't help the sudden sneeze escaping his nose.

"Bless you!" he heard from the end of the corridor and he lifted his head to see the man in, as always, a fancy suit. "Hello, John."

"Hello, Mycroft." he sniffled and hurried down to the room where his brother-in-law was casually standing, leaning on his expensive umbrella.

The man had placed himself in an old office overrun by damaged desks and wooden chairs. Cloth of ripped curtains overlapped the crushed windows and glass that spread across the room.

"Why here of all places? Reminds me of..."

".. one of your dens during the war." Mycroft finished for him and shifted his weight to the other leg so he was free to give his umbrella a swing. "Yes, I'm quite aware of the state of the schools down there." The point of the umbrella, that John was sure contained some kind of sharp weapon or perhaps some other kind of defence mechanism, smacked the dusty floor again and a tiny mushroom cloud was formed. "I need to speak to you." John pulled the shoulders of his jacket up to his ears and put his hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock's fine." he started. "Almost had a relapse earlier today, but nothing that a cup of tea and a light smack can't fix. Otherwise, he's fine. Bored."

"I did not bring you out here to listen to gossip." Mycroft sang, but he seemed happy with the information John had just given him. John shrugged, but regretted it quickly when the moist air crept into his jacket as he did so.

"Then why did you call me here?" he asked and felt how his nose started to run. Sometimes he missed the warmth of a foreign country.

Seeming to take John's question under consideration, he started to move a little back and forth, almost Mycroft swayed where he stood, John knew he had just watched the whole British government being off balance. Something was clearly wrong, and Mycroft needed him to get Sherlock's help. There were no questions to be asked. He licked his lips, quickly regretting it as the grit flying around in the air stuck to his tongue, leaving a disgusting taste in his mouth.

"You have a file I presume?" he sniffled, and reached out his hand when Mycroft put his down the inside of his jacket.

They both stared at the documents in Mycroft's grip, and John saw how the long-fingered hand clutched to the file until his knuckles went white, like he didn't really want to give it to him. A silence fell to the room and John just listened to the distant sound of cars and machinery and somewhere deep in the noise, he could've sworn he heard the ocean.

"Is there a problem?" he finally asked, when seconds had passed and Mycroft still held the file like lives depended on it. The read-haired eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and he sighed loudly, taking in a deep breath before continuing.

"He's back, John." he quaked. John had never heard his brother-in-law sound so helpless. He was scared. And John felt his blood turn to ice in his vains. He stumbled back a step or two, felt his left hand quiver when he thought about the name hunting his and Sherlock's life, before Hamish even existed.

"That's... impossible." he stammered, and squeezed his hand into a fist before releasing it again. "He killed himself." The man took a step closer to place the file in his hand, but John didn't want to touch it now when he knew what it contained. He didn't want anything to do with that man ever again.

"Yes." Mycroft muttered with dead eyes, like life was about to leave him. "He did."

John didn't take the file, he couldn't even look at it anymore. Mycroft placed it on the desk beside them and took one more step when he saw the doctor tremble before him. "John. I wont let it happen twice."

A drop of sweat tickled his temple and he blinked hard to stop his mind from travelling too far. Every possible scenario played itself before his eyes and he tried to control his breathing. The last thing he wanted to do right now was having a panic-attack in front of Mycroft. Sharp teeth dug into his bottom lip when he lifted his gaze to look at the brother.

"Is he in London?" John heard his voice shake, and relaxed his tensed hand inside his pocket, thinking Mycroft's response couldn't come soon enough. He felt his shoulders sink an inch as the man shook his head.

"No, and he doesn't seem to be making his way here either. But I thought I should contact you. Just to be on the safe side."

"Safe side?" John snorted, and felt a smirk twitch his lips. How on earth would him knowing make the situation even remotely safer? There was a spider on the loose, and the web was knitting tighter and wider for each second his feet touched the ground of this planet, John could feel it.

"Yes." Mycroft replied softly, dragging his voice lazily. "If certain events take their place, you might know what to expect."

The corners of the doctor's eyes began to darken as he concentrated on the brother before him. The words he wanted to speak would cooperate with his tongue, and his lips just wouldn't form them.

"Now." Mycroft continued and crocked his head. "What do we tell Sherlock? We both know he will suspect something as soon you put your foot inside the door."

John blinked, curling his toes inside his shoes and scratching his jaw on the collar of his jacket.

"Well, I always look a little miserable after our meetings, I think Sherlock wont even notice." The man pursed his lips but didn't look hurt by the words, and frankly, John didn't care if he did. "We can't tell him Mycroft. He would run out the door by just the first syllable of the name and... Hamish needs him right now. Things in school.."

"Aren't as they should be." Mycroft finished. "I'll make sure to do something about that."

"N.. no!" Hands left his pockets and he touched his lips before pointing the whole hand at Mycroft. "This is not your responsibility. I and Sherlock will sort this out on our own. Keep your nose out of it." The line between his eyebrows felt deep and he tried to relax his worried face. He wanted to go home, check on his family, lock the doors, find his gun and keep it in his nightstand. A stress he hadn't felt for years started to tighten his stomach and the hunger that had been teasing there was now gone. His body went slack, he lowered his heavy head and closed his eyes.

"I need to go home, Mycroft. Are we done here?" Footsteps closed in and he felt the touch of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. He almost pulled back when it happened. Mycroft didn't like to touch people, and John was so unused to it from him, he didn't particularly like it either. He lifted his head again, looked at the man with the calmest face he could carry.

"It's going to be fine John. We'll keep in touch." he said, and placed something heavy in his hands. He glanced at the black box and managed to give him a thankful smile when he saw it. It was a brand new phone. Of course Mycroft had seen him drop the last one. "I'll call you if he comes anywhere near the streets of London. I'll do everything I can to keep him out."

"Yes, yes, of course." John groaned and scratched his jaw, thinking about how Mycroft handled the man the last time. "I'm sure of it."

He thanked him for the new gadget and returned to the car waiting for him on the parking lot with an awful feeling in his gut. A feeling that hadn't bothered him for so long started to make it's way back into his mind, slowly finding every weak spot and pressing them with awful imagination. Hamish. Sherlock. There was so much at stake right now, so much he didn't want to loose.

He shut his eyes, let London pass in darkness without his observations. All the energy left in him was put to work on calming all the thoughts and feelings. He couldn't afford a panic attack, not now. He needed to get home, hold his family, go on with his life, and try not to live in fear.

* * *

**Please leave a review and tell what you think.**


	2. Gun or tea?

**Sorry for taking my time updating, I want this story to turn out as good as possible and crime-fics are hard... and the crimes hasn't even started!? What have I've gotten myself into?**

**A little language-warning in this one.**

* * *

He locked the door. Once, twice, thrice. Pulling the handle just as many times before turning to the entrance of the house. This was home, this greenish grey corridor with wallpapers stained by dirt, blood and horrific nail scrapings. He breathed in the air of Baker Street and felt that small ounce of safety find its way back into his guts again, at least for a moment. Turning back at the door, he listened to the street outside. Everything was normal but he couldn't help the thought that maybe it wasn't. It might just be a matter of time before everything goes to hell.

Taking two steps at the time he was soon to reach the flat. He hardly got in before he slammed the door and locked it. Just to make sure no one would get in.

"What about Mrs Hudson?"

The voice almost made him jump out of his skin as he turned to face the still messy sitting room. A fire crackled by the armchairs where Sherlock sat, a book in his hands and a cup of tea steaming on the side table. John felt a little calmer by the scene.

"What?" he breathed and felt his heart drumming in his chest. Either because of the run up the stairs or fear, he did not know yet.

"You locked the door. How is Mrs Hudson supposed to get in?" the detective asked and the book made the sound of an ocean stroking the beach as he turned the page.

"She can always knock," he muttered. He tossed his jacket over the rack and made his way to the kitchen to find some food that he didn't plan to eat. It was just a prop, something he could stare at for a while so he would look normal and unbothered by the meeting with Mycroft. Sherlock took a deep breath as he moved and lifted his gaze from the book.

"I suppose Hamish should knock as well then?" he smirked and John stopped in mid step.

The room above them that John once had slept in was now Hamish's den, and he had just locked him out. An ugly curse slipped over his tongue and he spun around to unlock the door and felt his husbands eyes burn the back of his head.

"You reek of concrete and waste. Where did Mycroft take you? The industry parts of town." It wasn't as much a question as a deduction so John kept silent, stared into the wooden door and felt his blood go colder for each second that passed. But it wasn't that man he feared as much as he feared himself at the moment. The military started to find its way back into his veins and he hadn't felt that part inside of him in many years. He didn't miss it either, because he knew what it meant to have that back. If he couldn't bury it again, this flat would soon contain a broken solider with nightmares and flashbacks. All this because of that that man had come back from the dead.

"John?"

"I'm fine." he answered to the unspoken question and suddenly felt the need for a glass of good wine to calm his nerves.

John walked around the flat, kept his eyes on the door and windows and Sherlock began to noticed something was off. Polishing his bow, he watched John from his armchair, saw him sipping his wine and nervously pacing the room. But he didn't ask, John had stated that he was fine an hour earlier so he didn't dig any deeper into it.

The doctor put down his glass on the desk and turned to the window, looked down on the street that had fallen under the darkness of nightfall. An older couple walked passed the old Speedy's café. Three drunkards danced along the pavement, tossed half empty beer cans on the walls while laughing and folding in the act. Nothing looked unusual, but he couldn't be sure about it. Back in Afghanistan, he learned how quick something could take a turn for the worse. One second he would be playing card games or rugby with a ragged ball, and in the next sitting on his knees in blooded sand, hand down in a comrades guts.

Then there was a sudden bang and John was tossed back to reality so fast he didn't have time to put the fears of war aside. Roaming the room with wide eyes he realised Hamish had dropped the lid of the piano and he swallowed his heart down his throat.

"What are you doing?" he heard himself thunder but locked his jaw as soon as he heard his own voice full of anger and fear. His son turned to him with big, innocent eyes and John fled the scene into the kitchen to have a glass of cold water, hide from the awkward situation he'd just created. As it flowed down his throat he saw in the corner of his eye how Sherlock approached him. It was always terrible to know he tried to deduce him. The glass hit the sink with a clink and John braced himself to the counter, making himself ready for Sherlock to prove what was wrong with his doctor. But the detective kept silent, just stood in the doorway observing him and John turned his head to look at him.

"Get on with it." he fumed, hated the suspense before Sherlock showed off with his cleverness.

"Get on with what?" Sherlock asked and uncrossed his arms over his chest and then John saw how worried he looked. It wasn't often he got to see his husband like this. Sherlock was worried about him and John quickly regretted his words.

"I'm sorry." he muttered and hurried across the room to embrace him, realising that the promise he'd made himself in the car wasn't fulfilled until now. He hadn't held his family a single time since the Anthea-lady dropped him off.

He melted together with the man dressed in a expensive gown and old pyjamas, took a deep breath of his musky scent and enjoyed the warmth of the long arms wrapping around him.

"It's just... " he started but didn't know how to finnish that sentence. The things that bothered him wasn't ready to be shared with his husband that had no case to concentrate. The situations with ms Tennant, Hamish school situation in general and then the news Mycroft had brought him. He couldn't tell Sherlock any of those things at the moment.

"Me too!" they heard their boy shout and he pressed himself between them to join their intimate hug.

"Yes, you too." John rejoiced and pulled him up between them and suddenly, the world seemed to be easing its grip around his shoulders for just a moment. He took a deep breath in Hamish's hair, smelled the minty shampoo and the feeling of home started to grow in his head and heart. This was what he needed to keep safe,and that man would never take this away from him.

* * *

Sherlock put Hamish to bed that night, left John alone downstairs and he took the chance to secure the windows and doors a second and third time. Then he turned to the bookshelf. Staring at the old dictionaries for a moment and thought about what was hidden behind the heavy books between G to K. There he found his gun, wound in an old army t-shirt and tucked in as close to the wall as possible with a box of ammunition that rattled incredibly loud in his ears. He unfolded the swaddled weapon and stared at the black steel.

It hadn't been in his hands for ages, the weight of it felt different. He checked the clip, two bullets was left since the last time it was fired and the smell of gunpowder brought back many bad memories, but he still felt melancholy about it. It helped him see the faces of old friends. Friends that had died while this was in his left pocket and the steel had been stained by their blood more than once.

He secured it and placed it close to his thigh where it felt like it belonged when he felt the eyes burn the back of his head once more. Looking over his shoulder he saw Sherlock staring at him in the doorway. Blue-green eyes half lidded as he observed with interest and worry.

"John." he gulped. "Are we expecting someone?"

The detective couldn't have seen him pick up the gun, he must have heard the sound of the clip, the rattle of the box of ammo. And John thought he could do this unnoticed, how ignorant could he possibly be when Sherlock was in the house?

"No, of course not." he quaked and spun around, feeling the air leave the room when he saw his husbands worried expression again. "It's nothing. More a bad feeling than anything else."

"John." the detective tried again and stepped closer, the silky robe waving gracefully behind him. "Tell me." he demanded and stood so close John needed to tilt his head back to look him in the eyes. "I can read everything except your thoughts, that part you have to fill me in with. What did Mycroft want. You clearly didn't gossip about me this time."

John giggled when he heard him say that, fell into his arms again and kissed his scruffy jaw and heart shaped lips.

"You know your brother. He tried to make me persuade you into some stupid case but I said no." he lied and traced his hands over his sharp shoulder blades. Knees went weak by the thought of seeing that man's naked back arch under his touch and he hummed, satisfied as he pictured it. Putting worries aside for a moment he found a new mission for the evening than just guarding the house. Sex was distracting, and distractions were good in times like this.

"Let me take you to bed." he whispered and let the breath of his words caress Sherlock's pale cheek, smelling the oil that kept his curls from tangling.

"I'm not tired." Sherlock answered but knew perfectly well where this was leading. His skin prickled by the lips so close to his weak spot under his ear and pushed closer to John for more.

"Me neither." John smirked as their bodies pressed together and shared the heat.

"Why would I want to go to bed if I'm not tired?" the detective asked with the most teasing smile, fiddling his long fingers through the strands of John's short hair and his doctor chuckled.

"Because you don't like it when I carry you." he reminded him and slimmed his eyes as he crocked his head and stared at the tall man before him.

* * *

"WHERE'S THE MEDIC!"

"GET ME A FUCKING MEDIC!"

"JOHN! FOR FUCK'S SAKE!"

He ducked under the flying shrapnel and felt the heat of fire burn his side. Rolling over the sand covered in red, he heard the gushing sounds of coughing. He looked up, saw the man, not much older than himself, lying behind the barracks. Ripped apart, guts flowing outs his abdomen and beyond his priority of helping. It was simply to late for him.

"JOHN!" His name was muffled by the peppering sound of gunshots and he looked around. He was alone, not a single solider, friend or enemy was close. He was alone in the battlefield, but his name kept on being called.

Barracks turned into dust, becoming one with the ground and the deafening sound of falling bombs and gunshots continued in an alarming rate. Higher and higher until he couldn't ignore it anymore. He covered his ears, but it didn't help. The sound of death was inside his head, he couldn't shut it out. He kneeled on the ground, pressed his hands to his ears until it pained him but nothing could stop it. The heat around him set fire to his clothes and he screamed. Searing pain travelling through him and the small ounce of control still left in him became harder to hold on to.

"JOHN!?"

He knew that voice. He knew that smell.

"JOHN! COME ON!"

Hands were touching him, but there was no one around in this burning desert. He couldn't let go of his ears, he couldn't move a limb. Someone was pinning him down.  
"John, please."

His eyes shot open and he was met by the only two people he didn't want to see in a place like this. Sherlock standing over him, eyes wide in fear. John needed to get him out of here but he couldn't remove his hands from his ears, the sounds were too loud. And Hamish, this would be the death of them both.

"Get out of here!" he shouted in panic but none of them moved. His husband closed in and stroke his sweaty forehead calmingly. How could he be calm in this moment. "Sherlock, get him out! Run!"

"John!" Sherlock begged and his dark curls brushed over John's nose. With that he was slowly painfully sucked into reality again. The heat of the desert blew away with the wind, the light of the burning sun faded into just the soft glim of the table lamp, the heavy military clothes melted off his body and he was dressed in his pyjamas again. The gunshots and bombing turned into the sounds of his own breathing and moaning and he stared at Sherlock who was now safely placed in their bedroom.

Thank god.

His head fell back on the pillow, panting heavily as he fought the tears stinging his eyes. The last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of his son and ruing that strong image he had of his father.

Seven years, seven long years had passed without him having these fits of panic. Not a single time since his sister had given birth to Hamish and he had landed in their hands had the war bothered him. The same day he became father, he stopped being a solider.

Arms went slack and ears ached by the hard pressure he'd put on them. Sound became more clear and he listened to London. Cars passing, the ocean wind, screaming seagulls. Then he listened to the sound of home, droning pipes, creaking windows, wheezing heaters.

"John?" He opened his eyes he never realised he'd closed and stared right into the blue-green eyes of the man he loved. They were concentrated to the fullest, not letting a single change in John's face slip past his observation. John felt safe again.

"I'm sorry," he stammered and demanded his chin to stop trembling. The shock was leaving him and with it all the emotions he'd tried to keep locked down swelled over him like a cold shower. The next breath lefe his chest and fell over his lips in an awful sob. He pressed the heels of his hands to the hollows of his eyes, anything to make the tears stop falling. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock wrapped his hands around his wrists when he saw his husband break underneath him. Hushing him gently he put his arms around his neck and pulled him close to his chest. There John cried, sobbed and hiccuped like a child and he didn't care if Hamish saw him anymore. The fear needed out and this was the only way.

"It's okay, John." Sherlock whispered and stroke big soothing circles on his back. "It's okay." The doctor took the next upcoming seconds to get back into calm breathing when he felt a fire being fanned in his hear. All this that had been gone for so long angered him so massively he couldn't keep it in anymore.

"Damn these dreams!" he shouted furiously into the crook of his husbands neck and he saw Hamish jump by his side, not all ready for his father's outburst. Never in his short life seen his father so sad and angry at the same time.  
"Daddy?" Hamish asked softly. John flung out his arm and pulled him into the hug, kissed his head and face forgivingly and sniffled. Tears still falling, heart still drumming and body still trembling.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. He closed his eyes hard hard enough for it to hurt, forcing his tears back into his skull. "I didn't mean to scare you, Hamish. I'm so sorry." The boy placed his head upon his father's heaving chest, trying to give him some sort of comfort with his closeness and for John it worked. Having him near helped him put the fears of war aside and he was quickly back in London again.

"Don't be sorry." Hamish begged him with a weak voice. "You didn't scare me as much as you scared yourself." And John managed to laugh at that, he was probably right.

"Yes, I think so too."

To his disappointment, Sherlock pulled back and sat up in bed. John wouldn't have complained to hold him a bit longer but he still had Hamish in his arms, and he would hug the hell out of that boy now when his other arm was free. With a loud grunt, he pulled him up in bed and cradled him lovingly. Feeling his life so close was the most calming sensation he could ever feel. Hamish giggled when his feet left the floor and he sneaked his arms around his neck.

"Oh Hamish." he sighed, wide awake by now. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Tea?" Sherlock asked and stepped out of the bed, tossed the silky robe around his shoulders. John agreed and left the bed as well, not letting go of his boy. He was the calmest thing there was.

* * *

Sherlock started the kettle and John sat down in his armchair with Hamish in his lap, he could tell he was full of questions and he was ready to answer all of them as truthfully as he could. The clumsy little fingers tried to wipe the drying tears of his cheeks and he welcomed the touch.

"You don't have nightmares." Hamish said while frowning. "Did something happen?" That boy could read him like one of his books and he sighed loudly before he pressed his lips to his temple and nuzzled his hair.

"Kind of." he whispered and took a deep breath of his scent. "But this is not new to me, I had nightmares all the time before you were born." Hamish stared at him, the little wrinkle between his eyebrows appeared as he thought about that for a moment.

"Why are they back?" he asked. Hamish accepted the cup that Sherlock so kindly reached out for them and John took a small sip as he thought of an answer.

"Work." he lied and shot Sherlock a glance as he sat down in the opposite armchair, eyeing him with his beautiful eyes and tried to deduce what could have started this again.

"Work?" he asked and and crossed his legs. "We haven't had a good case for months, so it must have been something at the clinic? Bad wounds? Something that brought back memories?" John licked his lips, Sherlock had just given birth to a good lie for him to lean on.

"Yes." he answered, almost to quickly. "Bad day, so to say."

"Memories?" Hamish asked and looked between his fathers. "Memories about what?"

An awful silence fell to the room, Hamish didn't know about his military background and John had planned to tell him when he was older. He knew what kind of thoughts would pop up in a young child's head when they met a solider, what kind of excitement would be birthed in their eyes and that's why he wanted to tell Hamish when he was older. The explanations he had to tell when a child asked how many he'd killed and saved was horrible when the child saw him as a hero. He wasn't a hero, and had never been one. But Hamish deserved the truth if he would be awoken many nights in a row with a screaming father in the house.

"You see..." he started and placed the cup on the table so he could hold his boy as he told the story. "Before you were born, before I met dad, I had another job." Also Hamish put away his cup so he could snuggle close to his chest and listen to the tale of his daddy's life.

"Haven't you always been a doctor?" he asked and sneaked his hand around his waist too look for warmth, it was something he always did when he wanted to cuddle and John loved the way those little fingers touched his skin.

"Kind of." he murmured and leaned his head to the birds nest of hair Hamish had gone to bed with. "But I was a medic once. A doctor on the battlefield."

"You were a solider?" his son asked without any sort of curiosity in his voice. John frowned.

"Yes. In Afghanistan."

"Is that why you have that scar on your shoulder? Did you get shot?"

"Unfortunately. I was sent home because of that." he sighed and looked up at Sherlock who had moved a little closer with his chair, he looked sad, like he knew what these stories did to his husband.

"Did you almost die?" the boy asked and nibbled his bottom lip.

"It was close. But they patched me up and put me on the next flight to London." It amazed him that Hamish didn't have a single question about the war. Another child his age would have asked him hundreds of them by now but Hamish didn't.

"Good." he said and kissed his scruffy jaw. " Maybe it was a good thing, you getting shot and being sent home. You hadn't met dad if that didn't happen. Have you ever thought about that?" He had many times and it warmed his heart that his son just had done the same. It sent the tears right back to his eyes and he kissed the top of Hamish's head before hugging him hard.  
"Yes." he whispered. "And I don't think I would have lived a happy life if I hadn't met dad." With those words he was given that loving smile that he loved to see Sherlock make. It looked like he was trying to bite it back, like he didn't really want to show it but just couldn't hold it back. It was one of the most adorable things that man could do and John giggled and buried his nose in Hamish's hair while he watched the detective. By now he felt ridiculous. With a man like Sherlock in the house what had he to be scared of? Trouble meant only one thing to them, there was something to be solved.

* * *

**So, tell me what you think. I know it's a little shorter than the first chapter but there's more coming. I don't know when, but I'm working on it.**

**Once again a great thanks to my lovely Beta Lunalovely97!**


	3. Colourful numbers and their lines

**So this is the third chapter of the story.**

**Hamish's POV.**

* * *

Two days later, the first snow fell over London and Hamish stood by the window and watched the wonderful event with eyes glittering just as much as the flakes. Seasons was ranked according to their collection of holidays, so obviously summer was number one with winter up close. The more free time he had from school, the more time could he spend with his fathers on their jobs and frankly, school was hateful and he enjoyed every second he was away from it.

"Hamish?" he nearly jumped as he was pulled out of the deep thoughts and tore his gaze from the snow. His older father was standing close behind him with the coat in his hands, eyebrows raised like he was worried about something but he still smiled. "Sorry, did I interrupt some deep things?"

Hamish cleared his throat and let his father dress him in the coat, his cardigan rolled up uncomfortably in the sleeves and he gave a irritable grunt when he had to take it off again.

"No." he answered and saw Sherlock hurry from the kitchen down the stairs and they quickly followed. He would probably leave without them if they weren't quick enough.

Well in the cab he sat on the little space left between them, watching the screen of Sherlock's phone as he browsed several sites of maps, weathers and traffic reports, a usual routine when they were headed for a case.

"Where was she found?" John asked while staring out the window, gaze following cars and houses.

"There wasn't much left to be found." Sherlock groaned and John turned away from the window and shot him a look, Hamish didn't like the look on his face.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock, who didn't look up from the screen, just waved his hand in the air and shrugged.

"They found the pieces of her, somewhere outside Sussex."

"Pieces!?" Hamish felt how John stared at him with doubtful, blue eyes and it made his blood go cold. "You never said anything about her being cut up!" And then Hamish started to understand and looked up at his daddy with wide eyes.  
"I wanna come!" he demanded and seized his arm, but his words never reached any of them.

"She's not cut up, John. She was mangled in a wood chipper." Oh, how the boy could imagine that mess, he's chest burned with anticipation. Bones chattered to small pieces, flesh and hair in an awful bloody mess. They would have to look for evidence for ages to move on from that.

"Wood chipper!?" John shouted and brushed away Hamish's hand like he was nothing more than dirt. "For god's sake, Sherlock!" The detective lifted his head and looked at his husband, didn't understand his concern and neither did Hamish. People died every day, why would this girl be any more violent than the others? Dead men can't speak.

"I wanna come!" he demanded again and turned to his dad with hope of that he would defend him but then there was a knock, John had disturbed the driver and the boy knew what words would leave his mouth. "NO!"

"Take another route! Take us passed the Palace first."

"NO!"

The driver turned in the seat and gave the doctor a confused stare, he didn't believe what he's just heard.

"Buckingham Palace?" Hamish panicked where he sat and pulled Sherlock sleeve and tried to make contact with him.

"Dad! Don't leave me with Mycroft! Please!" he whined. He needed this, more than anyone of his parents could understand. This week had been the worst week on a long time, he needed some coldblooded murder, he needed something else to take his mind off school and its work. But it was too late, the cab took a 360 turn in the rondel and went back the way they came and a call was made from John's phone. He didn't listen to the conversation, he fell back in the seat and crossed his arms. He knew very well that there was no point in whining about this, his daddy had decided something and that meant it was happening. He just wished, that one time, his dad would stand up for him, tell John that 'Of course he can see some blood!' or 'It will be good for him!' but those days rarely came. He hated being treated like a child.

"I'm sorry Hamish." John said when he saw him pout between them. "I just can't bare the thought of you looking down on a puddle of a human being."

"There's nothing that would bother me about that." he hissed and kicked the seat in front of him. "This is stupid."

"There's no problem with you helping out later." Sherlock said and put down his phone. "We're just examining the body, then we'll pick you up." But that was a lie, he would be forgotten as always. Sit in the rooms of the palace for the whole damn day, stare at Mycroft while he worked by his desk since he was forbidden to 'wander off'. This weekend was officially ruined.

His uncle was not waiting for him at the backdoor this time, probably too lazy to leave his desk. There was a butler standing under the roof of the entrance, welcoming him with a posh accent that made him want to vomit. When he was younger he imagined the servants of the palace being penguins, somehow it had stuck in his head he always thought of them that way as he visited the place.

He shot a last look to his parents, both of them standing on the kerb waiting for him to follow the nice penguin but he stood put, too stubborn to do as he was told.

"This is a bad idea." he muttered and Sherlock sighed and squatted before him, pulled him into a hug and whispered "I'll take some pictures for you." and some of the anger evaporated with those words. He wound his arms around his neck and hugged him hard, forgiving him slightly.

"Thank you," he whispered back and felt the curls tickle his face. "That would be very naughty of you." and Sherlock chuckled. As he stood up again, Hamish turned to John, glared at him with eyes two shades darker than usual and John had to bite down hard not to back down on this decision. He felt like a first class asshole but he didn't want his son to see such things in this age.

"I'm sorry, love." he said and kneeled to get into the same eye level, took both his hands and squeezed them with his rough fingers. "You'll never be prepared to see something like that, I know you're strong and have seen far more horrible things than any other boy your age but the moment you lay eyes upon something like that... you might not be proud or happy with the outcome of your emotions." Hamish thought back on the night two days ago and suddenly understood and breathed out the anger. Maybe his daddy just saved him.

"Okay." he sighed and John looked very relieved by that. "Just... promise you'll pick me up as soon as you leave the morgue, or call Mycroft so someone can drive me wherever you end up. Don't leave me with this lot." John chuckled and kissed his forehead hidden under the dark strands of hair.

"I promise." he said and pulled him onto a hug, rubbing his hand up and down over his back. "You can be angry with me if you want, but this is for your own good."

"I'm not angry." he said quickly and buried his face in the crook of his neck. "Just disappointed."

"John." Sherlock interrupted and looked at his phone. "Time is flying and we're making apologies that clearly are unnecessary."

He saw the cab leave the driveway and he didn't care to wave even if the butler told him to do so, he was not a child. The people working at the palace called him 'Mr Holmes' even if he had reminded them thousands of times that it was 'Watson-Holmes' but they never seemed to learn, but he liked the mr-bit. It wasn't very often he was called that.

He followed the bird through a long corridor, passing many doors he wasn't allowed to open and important looking people, possibly agents, he thought as he bumped into the backside of the butler who suddenly stopped. The man gave a little chuckle and Hamish felt his cheeks go red when he took a few steps back from the embarrassment .

"Your uncle is expecting you." he said and opened the door.

"Of course he is." he groaned and pushed the handle. "What else would I be doing here?" He hurried inside so he could get away from the butler as quick as he could and suddenly realised where he was. This room was new to him and he felt his jaw drop by the sight. Nearly a hundred t.v-screens was before him and suddenly he saw sides of London he'd never seen before. There was so much going on and he roamed the screens to notice every single thing. He could see assaults, drugs being dealt and used, so many different crimes he needed a third hand to count them, and it wasn't even passed noon.

"So what do you think?" For the second time today a voice managed to scare him and he spun around and saw his uncle standing in the flicking lights. Something was different about him. The expensive jacket was thrown over the armchair by the wall, sleeves rolled up and for once he looked very casual, almost to casual. Hamish looked between the screens and his uncle and started to understand.

"This.." he started and took a step closer to the wall of security. "This is what you do?" Mycroft chuckled behind him and pushed the armchair over the floor. "This is my job." he said and moved his jacket out of the way, signalling Hamish to sit. "The office hours is just a part of my job, but this... This is what I do. I thought it was time for you to see it." Hamish jumped up in the chair and kicked his shoes off, they landed on the floor with two loud thuds and he wiggled his toes. A very rude behaviour for being inside the walls of the palace.

"So when dad said you have the whole London wrapped around your finger he meant.. "

"I have the whole London wrapped around my little finger." Mycroft finished and pulled up a small remote control from his chest pocket. "Here we have central-London." He clicked a button. "East." he clicked again. "West, north and south." For every click the screens shifted from one location to another and new crimes and events turned up and Hamish's eyes grew wide.

"Oh, this is cool." he sighed and tried to look at every screen, a shiver ran over his spine.

"It is, isn't it?" Mycroft beamed and gave him the remote. "Everything that's going on on London's streets, we're looking at it." Hamish clicked a button and roamed the screens until he found what he was looking for. There it was, the hospital where his fathers were and suddenly he almost wished that they forgot about him this time. He could easily spend the rest of the day here, looking out on London, looking at people who thought they were hidden. He felt like a spy.

"How many cameras are there?" he asked and clicked until he saw Baker street.

"Hundreds." Mycroft answered and sat down on the armrest.

"Yeah, but I like exact numbers." the boy grinned and his uncle smirked.

"I see." he said and smiled from ear to ear. "Seven-hundred-and-sixty-eight then, to be perfectly correct." That number was quickly put in his hard drive and finally closed his mouth. Then his mind was put to work. He shifted between the different locations, noticed every little thing, worked out where every camera was placed, how many seconds it took for it to turn from left to right and back again and soon a map started to form in his head. The blur of black and white scenes scrambled together and made clear sense, like his brain was made for this. He saw numbers, colours,and then he blinked.

"... your choice." He twitched and looked up at his uncle.

"What?" he asked and swallowed as he tried to get back to reality. Mycroft turned his gaze away from the screens and looked down on him.

"I was asking you about lunch." he said. "What would you like?"

"Um..." His mind was completely overfilled and it was like he couldn't understand what his uncle was talking about. Lines in red, green and black travelled through his brain like a knitting pattern and his eyes went foggy by the massive production of mapping. "What?"

"Lunch?" Mycroft repeated and ruffled his dark hair. "What do you want?" But the uncle noticed the foggy eyes and the nibbling of his lips. Nothing could get past him. "Are you alright?" His head was about to demolish, a pulsating, tearing pain tormented his head and Mycroft turned to fully face him, frowned as he saw the lines of pain in the young boy's face. "What happened?" A soothing hand caressed his neck and shoulders and he took a deep breath to calm his head but it didn't work. All he could see was lines, directions, numbers, colours, spots and a thousands of other shapes that just wanted to end up on the right place in his head. It was like a million little pieces of glass cutting every inch of his brain and he shut his eyes tight to make it stop. It wouldn't.

Next thing he knew was that someone picked him up from the armchair and cradled him like the child he was. Someone was screaming. Hands were touching him, petting his hair and shoulders but world was dark around him. Then there was that well known smell, pine tree and chemicals with a undertone of scented oil. Curls tickled the side of his face and he felt the chest he was press against vibrate of the voice that tried to calm him.

Lines scrambled to place in his head and the pain slowly faded and the world reappeared around him. Someone had moved him from the room where this had started and he was currently in Mycroft's tawdry office. Light still flickered his eyes and he slowly started to understand that much more time than he had come to notice had passed. He was in the arms of his dad, his daddy close beside him on the tacky sofa. Their voices rang in his ears and the salty tears stung his face as they fell. Now he knew who was screaming. It was him.  
"Dad!" he shouted, pinning himself to his coat. His father swayed him back and forth in his arms to calm him and someone hushed him ever so gently.

"Hamish, we're taking you to the hospital." John said with a voice so far away from someone being so close.

"No!" he cried and sobbed loudly into Sherlock's shoulder. Hamish had the same fear of hospitals as him. "No! I'll be fine!"

"You're in a lot of pain. They can help you." Sherlock whispered and stroke his hair.

"It's stopping!" It was the pure truth, pain was fading. Slowly but steady. "Take me home!" But they kept talking about ambulances and doctors which only made him panic more. "Take. Me. Home." It wasn't as much of a wish as a demand. He wanted to lie down in his own bed, have a cup of hot chocolate, listen to calm music, turn of the reality for a while. A hospital would only remind him of the pain. "Please!"

He blinked, and the next time he opened his eyes he was sitting in a cab, cradled close to John's side, head still pulsating and eyes foggy. He blinked again and suddenly he was staring up at the roof of the sitting room, comfortably lying on the sofa with a cover over him smelling like his fathers. Stomach was rumbling horribly and there was a film of an awful taste stuck across his tongue. Had he been throwing up?

"Hamish?" John appeared above him and placed a hand on his forehead. "Are you with us?" He took a deep breath and answered with a weak nod that made his father smile. But he shouldn't have moved his head. He's stomach turned painfully and John helped him lean over the basin on the floor. Nothing more than sour liquids left him and that only made the heaving worse. His father murmured as he held him, stroke his back and wiped the cold sweat of his face. "It's just a migraine. Did you eat something at the palace?"

"No." he moaned and fell back on the sofa, a towel cleaned the corners of his mouth and he opened his eyes again. Sherlock had appeared beside them and he placed a hot water bottle on his head.

"What did Mycroft do to you?" he asked with a hate trapped in his dark voice.

"Nothing." he moaned and looked down on his shaking hands.

"Then what happened?" John hushed his husband and told him not to disturb the poor boy but Sherlock needed to reach the source of this. "Tell me, Hamish."

He coughed and his stomach made a threatening turn again but he managed to calm it.

"I don't know." he whined and cleared his raspy throat. He had decided not to tell them about the room Mycroft showed him. Maybe that would be the end of his visits. Then he suddenly realised that it was nightfall, it was dark outside, a fire crackled in the fireplace. "When did we get home"

"A couple of hours ago." John answered and rubbed his arm soothingly. "But don't worry about that. Try to get some more sleep. You should be fine in the morning."

"How long was I at the palace?" he asked while frowning, trying to get a hang of the time he'd lost. "Did Mycroft call you?" Weight shifted in the cushion as John sat down beside him and placed a heavy hand on his chest. For a moment he looked very serious, like he'd done something bad.  
"He called us while we examined the crime scene. We hardly heard him over the screaming."

"I was screaming?" he breathed and looked at Sherlock who fell to his knees beside him, eyebrows knitted together over his nose and lips tightly pressed together. "I don't scream."

"We know that." Sherlock murmured, stroking his cheek. "But you were in pain. And a lot of it. We hurried back and found you in his arms at his office. Clutching the sides of you're head and shouting right out." The boy felt his cheeks burn, he didn't need to know that. But pain was still hunting him, from eyebrows all the way to his neck and his mind was processing the new information.

"Please." he moaned and took a couple of deep breaths. "Don't leave me alone." And they didn't, they stayed by his side until he started to drift off again. They kept rubbing his arms and chest a couple of minutes until he snored lightly when Sherlock looked up at John, eyes full of concern and suspicion.  
"Do you think someone did this to him?" he asked and took his sons hand, played with his little fingers.

"No." the doctor answered with a smile and his hand found its way into the many curls on Sherlock head. "It was just a migraine, nothing more. It happens to you to sometimes, when you let your mind travel off to far."

"Yes but..." The detective didn't really know how to finish that sentence. "John... I'm... Is he like me? Does he..." He swallowed hard when he felt how he started to tremble. This was what he's feared for a long time. If his boy was like him he would have a hell of a life, he didn't want that. All those headaches, feeling hate against people that didn't match his intellect and then become a loner because of it.

"Sherlock." John sighed and moved the basin to the side so he could embrace his husband. "Listen to me. You know Hamish well enough to know he's got your brain. There are many times we've found him thinking and it has taken hours to get him back. But this is something Hamish need to live with, we can't do anything about it. He'll have to learn how to control it." Sherlock sighed in despair and leaned to his shoulder, John kissed the top of his head and stroked his cheek.

"It took years for me to do that." he mumbled. "Once the mind travels off it's nearly impossible to stop it." But John just chuckled and kissed his temple.  
"Lucky he's got you to teach him then." he whispered and joined his hand in Hamish's, stroke those little fingers as they watched their boy sleep. "He gave us quite a scare today, didn't he?" Sherlock just managed to breath a laugh at that and relaxed a bit on his arms. He truly had.

* * *

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	4. You, granny and Greg

**Thank you so much for the reviews. I hope this chapter will be to your satisfaction as well.**

* * *

The screams lingered in John's ears for hours after they stopped. The sight of his son lying with his head in Mycroft's lap, pulling his hair and shouting in pain, was not something he would easily shake off. He didn't know if he should be more worried about Sherlock or Hamish. Ever since Mycroft called, the detective had dropped everything about the case and still hadn't picked it up.

The boy lay cradled in Sherlock's lap, wound in the fluffy cover and his father kept stroking his hair. John wished he knew what kind of thoughts travelled in his husband's mind at this moment. Old memories perhaps, flashbacks of his childhood when he suffered these attacks as well. Even if he'd deleted most of them he seemed to be searching hard to get a clue of what Hamish was going through.

Later John found himself half asleep in the armchair. He kept jerking himself awake to keep an eye on both his boys when Sherlock suddenly spoke for the first time in hours.

"Mycroft is not taking him again." he fumed. A hatred that had boiled in his guts was now steaming out of through his words. "He clearly showed us his qualities as a babysitter today. He's not doing it again." John, who now was fully awake in his chair, frowned and straightened his back.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock gave a loud grunt and the strands of hair overlapping his eyes made his eyes look fearsome, almost animalistic.

"This never happens in our presence. My brother did something... Hamish shouldn't..." Those words made John roll his eyes and he got up from where he sat.

"Sherlock." he sighed and fell down beside him on the sofa, carefully placing Hamish's legs in his lap and squeezing his little feet. "You told me yourself that this happened to you as well in his age. Your brother didn't do anything but take care of him. You saw how well he tried to soothe him when we found them." He thought back on the horrible scene in his brother-in-law's office. The moment they opened the door, the hoarse screaming welled out the boy's mouth and filled the air with anxiety. Those little hands pulling his dark hair while Mycroft rocked him in his arms, calmly stroking his back while singing to him. He actually sang while his nephew squirmed in his arms, clawed his head and cried.

"Did he do that to you as well?" he blurted out like Sherlock could read his mind. Even if he thought he could sometimes, he knew it was impossible. "Did he sing to you, I mean?" Sherlock doubted a couple of second before he nodded and it was clear that he didn't like those memories. "Did it help you?" A grunt left the detective, he didn't want to tell the truth but he had to, for Hamish's sake.

"It did." he said and John held back a smile, reached out his hand and twined one of the curls on his husbands head. The smell of scented oils entered the air as the strands shifted and the doctor sucked it all on before he leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"Then I would say that Mycroft is one of the best babysitters there is." he whispered and nuzzled his temple with the tip of his nose, sniffing and smelling every scent that that man secreted. "I don't think anyone would have handled that situation as well as him. Don't you agree?"

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock murmured and leaned into the touch of his hands, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds and drifting into the closeness of his husband. "I will never agree to such a thing." And John giggled at that, he never expected more. But he knew one thing, Mycroft would be babysitting Hamish again without Sherlock having a fit.

* * *

When he woke up he knew two things. The headache was gone and he knew two different ways to school without being seen. What in the world did that mean?

He sat up on the sofa and stared out over the room, it was very dark but Sherlock was sitting in the bright light of the laptop.

"Good evening," he greeted him without taking his eyes of the screen. John was nowhere to be seen but his shoes were neatly placed beside his armchair. In bed then. "How's your head?"

"Better." he answered and found himself panting like he'd been having a bad dream. His father waved his hand to the table where a steaming cup was placed upon the many magazines.

"I made you a cup of chocolate," he murmured. "I don't know how good it is, I just guessed the measurements." The cup was warm in his hand, newly made like Sherlock had known exactly when he would wake up. If that was the truth, Hamish was not surprised.

"There's instructions on the box," he smirked and took a sip. It was grainy and little to sweet for his liking. How could someone fail so bad at something so simple? But he didn't have the heart to complain when his dad actually had made an effort to make him something.

"Yes, I know. But they seemed wrong." He took his eyes off the screen and saw his son's nose wrinkle as he swallowed. "What? Not good?"

"No, it's...good," he lied and took another sip not to hurt his father. "Thank you." He blinked and tried to remember if he dreamt anything, but his head was only filled with direction, destinations and locations. Weird. There were red lines that equaled bad, green lines that equaled good and black lines that equaled maybe. He had not a clue what it meant yet or how to figure it out. He had to find out.

"Hamish!?" He was pulled out of his thinking and twitched by the fright. The detective was staring at him, eyes wide and hands folded under his chin. "Are you hungry?" Before he had a chance to think about it his stomach made a craving growl, he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Sherlock looked at his watch and stood up. "Come on, we still have time to have a bite at 'Little Blue Dragon' before they close." Then Hamish knew how long he'd been gone, that place closed at two at night. John would not like this if he heard what Sherlock was plotting but Hamish didn't care about that right now. He needed food, he would give anything for some fried chicken with sweet n' sour sauce.

The coat flew through the room and he caught it in mid air. "Well come on. Let's not wait for the grass to grow." Sherlock put on his own coat, knotted his scarf around his long neck and started looking for his wallet. Of course he had no plans to tell John where they were off to, so Hamish made that his responsibility.

_At little blue dragon_

_Very hungry_

_Back soon._

The message was left on the kitchen table and Hamish stared at the letters, he hated his handwriting. One day, John told him, his motor would catch up with his brain and he would have more control over his movements. Right now he was trapped in a vessel of a child, clumsy, flimsy, shaky. There was nothing he wanted more than to grow up. The sound of rattling keys made him turn to the sitting room where his father filled his pockets with everything necessary before he reached out his hand.

"Ready?" Okay, maybe there were some things that he liked with the kid-part. Like holding his father's hand for example. That was one thing he would miss when he grows up.

* * *

As soon as his feet touched the pavement his mind was put to work. They walked down the street at his head kept screaming 'Red line! Red line!' and he had no idea what it meant except bad. Every time they passed an alleyway he looked into the dark and his head screamed 'green line!' or 'black line!'." This, of course, started a headache again, but not even close to the first one.

"You okay?" Sherlock asked for the third time and Hamish just nodded. He didn't really know what else to answer but for each time his father squeezed his hand a little tighter.

"You'll eat too, right?" he asked. He hated when he had to eat alone with Sherlock just staring. "Or is this for some case?" The detective smirked and shook his head.

"It's just dinner." he answered. "And I think some Takoyaki would do me good."

"But..." Hamish started and they stopped outside the door to the little restaurant. "You're on a case." But Sherlock just hushed him and opened the door. The waiter bowed and greeted them in Korean. The Holmes's were well known here, and with that came the knowledge that the detective spoke some Korean. Hamish listened as his father ordered for them both in another language while taking a look around the restaurant. The had redecorated. What once was red and gold was now green, blue and silver. The air was filled with the smells of oil, fried meats and sweet sauces. They sat down by the window, the only guests this time of night and Sherlock showed Hamish once again how to hold the chop sticks, he almost got it this time. Then he sucked one of the mint-flavoured toothpicks and Sherlock tried to understand his sons fascination with flavoured wood while biting one of his own.

"This is sickening." he said and put it down on the tablemat and Hamish giggled.

"So is coffee, but you still drink it." he said, pulling out a third toothpick from the stand.

"Yes, but coffee is made out of something eatable. These aren't."

"What, wood?"

"Yes."

"Bamboo is wood, and we still eat it."

"Yes, but that's not the point."

"Then, what is the point?"

"That you're wrong."

"About what?"

"Trees."

"How can you be wrong about trees?"

"Hamish..."

"Dad..."

Sherlock opened his mouth to continue the argument but quickly closed it. It was a waste of time to keep this going. He just slimmed his eyes and he crocked his head as he observed his son while he nibbled the toothpick. Even if he didn't like it when his boy talked back he still found it funny. His childish way of turning any conversations incomprehensible until not even he remembered what had started it, so he might as well stop and let Hamish have his way.

"You're being ridiculous." he murmured and filled their glasses with cold water from the pitcher.

"You're being a show off."

"How am I being a show off?" Sherlock asked angrily and wrinkled his nose.

"How am I being ridiculous?" Hamish asked just as loud as him and cheered with his glass.

"Oh, shut up!" his father fumed but couldn't help the little laugh that slipped over his lips. That boy had really found a way to deal with him.

"You shut up." Hamish mumbled and took a sip of his water as their food was served. As the waiter turned his back Sherlock sniffed the fumes and grunted.

"They used too much pepper. Again." But he still put one of the takoyaki's in his mouth with the sticks. The food was still good, though he sneered when he saw Hamish pierce his fried chicken with just one stick and dipping it in the sauce. "That's not how you eat. Use a fork."

"Nope." Hamish smiled and waved his piece over the plate to tease him. "Not until I begin with the rice. Can I try one of those?" He pointed at one of the round ball's on the detective's plate and Sherlock passed one over.

"I don't know if you gonna like them though. These's squid inside them."

"I always like to try new things." He pierced it with the stick and bit in in half. The squid squashed around between his teeth and he chewed it thoroughly before he passed the second half back to his dad. "No. Not for me." Then they were silent, eating their food, Sherlock poking it, Hamish annoying him with his eating technique.

The people that passed outside the window caught their attention and they made mute deductions about them, sometimes they threw something out, like "cheating" or "dentist" and the other would just nod in agreement. Ten or twelve people later Sherlock saw someone with a buttoned coat and hair in a tight knot.

"Teacher." he said and looked at Hamish to see him nod, but the boy lowered his gaze and Sherlock frowned. The air thickened in the restaurant when he started to understand why his son looked so sad all of the sudden. "What did Mrs Tennant do to you?"

The fork, that Hamish had given up to, rattled on the plate and he bowed his head not to meet the detective's eyes. An iron clutch gripped his guts, the food before him wasn't so appetising anymore and he swallowed the rice he'd been chewing.

"Hamish? I know I don't ask this enough but, how's school?" The plate was shoved over to the middle of the table so Sherlock could lean on his elbows and observe him more properly and the boy moved back, shivering. This subject was something he didn't want to talk about without John with them, someone needed to stop Sherlock if his questions became to harsh.

"Hellish." he whispered and reached for the blue napkin beside the tablemat, teared it into small little pieces and rolled them between his fingertips before dropping them to the floor.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Hamish." Sherlock pleaded and moved closed to the table. "Please." Hamish turned in his chair and cleared it throat.

"You don't even care about this stuff." he said disappointedly. "You never do, you never even noticed when..." He paused himself to breathe and squeezed the napkin. "It wasn't work that upset daddy." His father twitched, leaned over the table to get caught in his gaze.  
"What? What about daddy?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh come on!" Hamish fumed and fell back in his seat. "Daddy's been working at the hospital for as long as I can remember and he's never had nightmares. But suddenly after meeting Mycroft it starts again and I smelled the gunpowder on his fingers." He lifted his head and pierced Sherlock with his eyes. "I didn't even know he had a gun in the house! Dad, Mycroft didn't summon him for gossip! There's something going on there. Something he doesn't want to tell us."

It was silent again, Sherlock swallowed continuously and all the thought tumbled around in his head before he could speak again.

"And this with school?" he asked silently. "How long has that been going on?"

"A year." Hamish mumbled. That's how long this problem had just passed his father's attention. Not once had he noticed, asked or even cared about how he was doing. Why now?

"What, exactly?" Hamish shrugged and lowered his head again, felling very stared at and didn't want to meet his father eyes anymore. What would he tell him? The stories of his father's own childhood had been told many times. His friendless schooldays and constantly bullied. But not for a single second had it bothered him, it had just passed him like dust so how would he be able to sympathise for him. And then he felt the tears burn his eyes.

"I'm just so alone, dad." he quaked and bit back his tears. "I haven't got a single friend, I spend my recess by reading and... I just wished I had someone my age to talk to." He quickly wiped the tears that fell down his cheeks with the back of his hand. "I'm just weird I guess. Not many other seven-year-olds sighs by boredom during story-telling or colouring." Then he couldn't hold it back anymore, tears welled out form his eyes and he sobbed quietly. He hated it, everything from school to people. Suddenly he was pulled by two arms and he fell into his father's embrace. A big hand cradled his head to his bony shoulder and the smell of pine and chemicals snuck up his nose, only making the crying worse. He flung his arms around his neck and clutched hard enough to choke him.

"Please, don't make me go back there." he sobbed. "Please. Mrs Tennant is a real idiot, too. I've been going to the school psychologist for months because of her and she's an even bigger idiot." He was picked up from the chair and Sherlock held him tight while he fished up some money from his pocket. Without a word he carried him out of the restaurant, stroking his back over and over and Hamish buried his face in the crook of his neck, cried out the pain he's been hiding. As they walked the street he listened to his father's breaths, passing cars, the buzzing streetlights. He just wished that Sherlock would say something, it didn't matter if it would come out as the most terrible consolation in the world. Just something to break this silence.

He smelled the curls tickling his face and sniffled, tears still flowing as Sherlock unlocked the front door. They were home again, safe and sound, when Sherlock suddenly kneeled on the carpet.

"Hamish." he whispered and grabbed his shoulders to take a look at him. Eyes red, face stained by tears and snot around his nose. "You need to tell me these things. You might think I don't care because nothing seems to bother me and to be honest, many things don't. But you..." He stared at him, face highly concentrated on him with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. "I do care about you. When things happen to you I want to know. I always care about you, and daddy."

"And granny?" Hamish sobbed and wiped his tears with his jacket.

"And granny." he grinned and ran his hand through his hair.

"And Greg?"

"And Greg, but that's not important right now." he said and waved his hand. "Hamish, when bad things happen to you I want to help. But if you don't tell me... how can I?" The detective crocked his head and stroked his thumb back and forth over Hamish's cheek, smiling lovingly as he leaned in to kiss his forehead. "I don't want you to think otherwise." With those words Hamish fell into his arms again, hugged him hard and cried the last couple of tears with a lightened heart. "You know I love you." It wasn't very often Hamish had the honour to hear that sentence from him and he smiled happily into his shoulder.

"I love you too." he whispered and tangled his fingers in his curls.

"Now." Sherlock sighed and pulled back again. "About daddy..."

* * *

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	5. Einstein's tongue and a green cardigan

**Hello dearies, hope you liked the last chapter. Here is the next one (obviously) and I hope you'll like it.**

* * *

Something heavy made a dip in the bed and the peaceful dream he had quickly turned violent. With a shock he sat up, breathing stuck in his throat and he roamed the room before he found Sherlock beside him. The fear left him when he met his face and he fell back on the pillow with a loud sigh, thankful for being in London.

"Jesus Christ," he whimpered and pressed the heels of his hands to the hollows of his eyes.  
"You seem a bit on edge." the detective whispered and crawled down under the cover and John felt his naked legs against his. That could mean two things, and one of those possibilities seemed to had left both their interest this late at night.

"You're trying to get some sleep?" he asked. He removed his hands from his face to look at his husband whose head sunk into the soft pillow beside him. The dark curls waved over the blue cotton sheet and his pale skin made him look angelic, he just had to kiss those beautiful heart shaped lips. As he did he smelt the salty oil, tasted the spices that had passed that tongue and he smiled. "You took Hamish out for dinner?"

"Yes." Sherlock murmured and let his rather large hand travel over the doctor's scarred torso. He touched the web of hard skin on his left shoulder with light fingertips and couldn't help the feeling of anger that something so horrible once happened to him. The thought of John being so close to death hurt him more than the making of his own scars ever had done. His vessel was unimportant, John's wasn't. "He woke up hungry. He's sleeping again, in his own bed this time."

John snuggled a little closer and hid his face in the crook of his neck, kissed his collarbone and embraced him sloppily with tired arms. But his detective felt stiff, not at all ready for drifting off into sleep or even relax for a bit. He was wound up, in deep state of pondering when John opened his eyes.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

The man in his arms let out a strangled groan and made an effort to relax but his mind was clearly too worked up. "Is it the case?" John asked and pulled back to meet his eyes in the dark and discovered a face he hadn't seen for years. His detective looked sad. "Sherlock?" John could hear the breaking of his own voice. Just seeing that face could bring him down in the same sadness without even knowing what had started it. Seeing Sherlock's wet eyes, quivering lips and flaring nostrils was just heartbreaking. "What happened?"

There was a long moment of silence. The pale man beside him blinked as he observed him. The hand that had been caressing his skin curled up into a loose fist and hovered over his heart.

"Why do you keep such secrets from me?" he finally asked with his dark voice. He wasn't mad nor disappointed, only deeply hurt. That his family lived in the belief that he didn't care about them was too painful even for him. How long had it been going on? Even if the answer was a year, it was still too long to be acceptable.

It was now John's turn to stiffen. He pulled back his arms and took Sherlock's both hands, the tips of their noses touched. They were so close they breathed each others air. He took a trembling breath and bit down on his lips so he wouldn't sob.

"So Hamish told you?" he quaked and licked his lips. The detective just nodded, squeezed his hands and sighed loudly.

"A year, John. He's been going to that bloody school for a year and none of you ever bothered to tell me?" John shook his head quickly and shut his eyes hard.

"He... he told me this Thursday. I didn't know anything before then."

"Five days." Sherlock mumbled and swallowed hard. "You didn't tell me in those five days? Do I really appear to be so uncaring?"

The doctor twitched and felt his heart ache by the question. His husband should never feel the need to ask him that.

"Sherlock," he choked and kissed his long fingers, nuzzling them with his nose as the tears started to fall. "Of course not. No."

"Then why not tell me? We could have done something days ago. Just because I don't notice these kinds of things doesn't mean it doesn't bother. For christ's sake, it's our son we're talking about."

John had no words for his deceit, he didn't know how he could make this up to him.

"And then there's you." Sherlock continued and John twitched when he heard him. Those blue-green eyes pierced him, ready to notice every little thing that could reveal something about the secrets he'd been keeping. "What did Mycroft want?"

Just the thought about the meeting made the doctor tremble violently, he couldn't talk himself out of this. The only way was to tell him. He took a deep breath, blinked a couple of times before looking up at Sherlock again. Staring into the dept of his colourful eyes he squeezed his hands hard and released his tongue between his teeth.

"He's back, Sherlock." he stuttered and his husband's face went paler than usual. "Moriarty is back." That name would always send shivers down Sherlock's spine. He froze before the doctor and John pressed his lips to their hands, trying to hide from his scared gaze. "Mycroft is keeping his eyes on him. According to him, he's no where near London."

Sherlock was quiet, too quiet and John couldn't bare to look at him stomach turned,his head pulsated in pain and the tears burned his face. Then he felt Sherlock let go of his hands. Those long fingers wiped his face and caressed his cheeks.

"Please, Sherlock," he pleaded, heart aching with fear that his husband would leave them because of this information. "Don't do anything stupid." The detective frowned. He seemed to be considering that for a moment before he asked "What would be considered stupid?" and John just managed to smile, the tear-stained cheeks burned when he buried it into his husbands chest.

"Running off." he suggested with a smirk and caressed his thin waist with his thumb. "Hamish and I need you right now. We need to do something about the school and..." He silenced and bit back a sob that threatened his voice. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you. It's just... just.. every time I tell you something it becomes so real. And... I guess I didn't want this to be.. real." He scoffed at his own words and let the tears fall freely. "I know it's stupid but..."

"Not at all John." Sherlock whispered and held him tight. "It's illogical, but you're never stupid, John." A mix between a sob and a laugh left the poor doctor who felt the shame leave his chest little by little and he crawled closer to his husband in the bed. "Only an idiot from time to time."

That was exactly what he needed to hear. Believe it or not, but that was Sherlock and his best.

"I do love you, Sherlock." he reminded him for the thousandth time in their life and Sherlock answered him like he'd always'd done.

"Feeling are mutual."

* * *

Hamish lay in his bed, too worked up and too well rested to sleep. The roof seemed more interesting than ever as he stared at every crack and dent in the paint and on some places there was leftover glue from luminous stars he had a year ago. As he traced the cold metal bed frame with his hand and listened to his own breaths and heartbeats, he thought about what had been going on in his head these last couple of hours. Something had clearly changed among the many parts of his brain. He touched his forehead, hoping that maybe he could feel something that didn't belong there. A lump, a swell, a change of temperature, anything that could be a sign on that something was wrong with him. But the outside of his head was normal,his headache was completely gone and the dizziness was over.

The darkness around him tried to invite him to sleep but he just couldn't no matter how hard squeezed his eyes closed and laid perfectly still under the warm cover. His head just kept on working, figuring out different ways to get to places like the library, museum, palace and ten other destinations in way he'd never traveled before, and every time the road was lined up in those different coloured lines.

He fisted the sheets and let out a frustrated groan before he heaved himself up and stared out over the room. There was a pile of clothes on the floor and on the top laid the clothes he'd been wearing earlier today, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt with a picture of Einstein exposing his tongue to the world and a dark green cardigan. Just looking at them gave him the urge to get up again. He wanted to explore this that his mind had been working with the these day, he needed to make some experiments.

Seven years or not, he knew he was way too young to stray the streets alone this time at night. He stood in the entrance of the flat, holding his father's keys in a hard grip and looking down at his tied shoes as he considered this a second time. Should he? Really? Could be dangerous, which he found intriguing, and exciting.

He held his breath and listened to the sound of the flat. It was quiet, calm, peaceful. His fathers were asleep, unknowing of what he planned and he took the first step on the stair, listened to it squeak under his shoe and he stood still for a moment. No one had heard him and he took another step, then another, and another, and another. It felt like a huge accomplishment when he finally reached the bottom floor without his all-knowing father and detective had heard him. And here is also where his mind was put to heavy work.

He stared at the front door. The quickest way to get to the library from here was taking left just as you stepped outside, but his mind told him to go right. He didn't know why, he just knew that's how it needed to be done. The lock clicked like a gunshot and he held his breath again, listened intensely on every sound around him. The flat was still quiet, but outside London was awake. A bus passed, quickly followed by a moped and he started breathing again. He put his hand on the handle and pressed it down.

The November breeze hit his face and he squinted his eyes in the yellow gloom of the streetlights. Frost and ice was covering their street and it was cold, snow threatened to fall once again. He roamed the area, a homeless man was camping among cardboard boxes and papers on the other side of the road. He liked to be called Tommy, even if his name was Thomas, he knew this because he was a part of the homeless network and he'd helped Sherlock many times during cases. Hamish liked him, but he didn't have the time to greet him because he was on a mission.

He looked to the left, saw a couple of young teenagers sprinting after the bus that just passed, then he looked to the right and his head screamed black line over and over and steered his feet after his mind's orders. Swiftly avoiding the patches of slippery ice he came closer and closer to the place where is head changed colour from red to green. He looked down the dark alleyway and wished he'd brought his torch. Too late to go back though, his urge to follow his instincts was too strong.

The first step into the alley drowned him in darkness and he stood put for a moment to get used to it. Soon the outlines of dumpsters and containers appeared in the blackness and he blinked continuously as he walked deeper and deeper into the alley until he reached the end and he looked down the smaller alley to the next street, thankfully lightened by a small lamp over a metal door. He followed it blindly, head suddenly screaming black line and he stopped. Looking around the alley he saw the security camera on the wall. It slowly turned from left to right and he scoffed as he started to understand.

As the camera turned the other way he hurried as quickly and quietly as he could until he reached the wall precisely underneath it. It buzzed slightly as it turned the other way and he escaped it's gaze. Quickly he hurried to the unwatched other half of the alley and barely made it to the end before the camera turned to him again.

He entered another black line as he pressed himself to the wall panting, feeling some pride of what he'd just accomplished but he still didn't know exactly what. He just felt... very, very... alone in a good way. Like he'd made something incredible, impossible and he smiled widely and looked around where he was. He quickly noticed every camera over this location, calculated how many seconds they roamed from left to right and he soon knew exactly when and how to move without being noticed and suddenly it hit him.

He was invisible.

He was able to do something not even his father could do, he could hide even from Mycroft. He could move anywhere he wanted without being seen and with that his heart started to race in excitement. So this was what those screen had done to him, this was what his mind had figured out for him. His subconscious hatred of always being watched by his uncle, that his father's always could be informed of where he was, was now gone. He could hide from London itself even if he moved right through its heart.

He nibbled his lips hard enough to taste blood and looked down on his black boots as he grinned. It felt like a superpower, an ability that he never knew he wanted but as he now possessed it he didn't know how to live without. No one knew where he was and that's how it would continue. He was invisible now.

* * *

The ringtone he had chosen, he had chosen because it was his favourite melody by his favourite band. By now he hated that song because it always woke him up at night. He fumbled over the side table until he found the device and he squinted at the bright name and felt his stomach turn by the letters. The first thing that came to mind was Moriarty. Why else would Mycroft call this late?

"Mycroft?" he slurred and sat up in bed, saw his husband frown as he heard the name.

"I'm terribly sorry to call you at this hour." the brother said and took a deep breath. "But something odd just occurred around your streets." That was all John needed to toss himself out of bed and pull out the drawer containing his underwear to search for his gun. He was close then?

"You told me he wasn't even nowhere near London!" he shouted, realising his gun was missing. It wasn't on the place he'd hidden it or nowhere near.

"No John, you misunderstand." Mycroft said quickly. "It's... Hamish. We caught him leaving your home." He stopped what he was doing and thought about those words for a moment. Was this the truth? It wasn't like Hamish to do something like that. The doctor cursed and forgot about his gun and started looking for clothes instead.

"Where is he?" he asked and jumped into his trousers as quickly as he could to get out the door as soon as possible. But Mycroft didn't answer his question and John stopped everything he was doing and breathed heavily into the phone. "Mycroft!?"

"To be honest, I don't know." the brother answered. John frowned and turned to Sherlock.

"What do you mean you don't know? You always know!" The detective was already on his feet and for the first time in years he didn't care to get properly dressed before tossing himself out the door, he just stepped into his shoes and hurried out to the sitting with John closely behind.

"He disappeared from our cameras. One second he was there and the next... One of my agents just informed me and he was last seen an hour ago. Since then he hasn't appeared."

His guts twisted painfully and he covered his mouth so he wouldn't shout into the phone. Hamish never did these kinds of things. Why did he leave? He hung up the phone at put it in his pocket before he followed Sherlock down the stairs, he knew that Mycroft would call again if the situation changed and if Mycroft couldn't find him, they would have to do this the old way.

The big navy coat fluttered in the wind behind the detective as he roamed the area. He looked terrified and John hadn't seen him like this for years. He hadn't even bothered to put on his scarf or button the damn coat, his pyjamas were now shown to the world.

"Sherlock." John whimpered nervously and grabbed his arm. "Mycroft haven't seen him since he left the house. That was an hour ago." But the man pulled himself loose an ran across the road to the other side. "Sherlock!?"

"Thomas!" he shouted and squatted beside the old man sleeping among the boxes and the man twitched and made himself ready for a fight. "Tommy?" He cupped his thin shoulders and stared into the old, dirty man's eyes. "Have you seen Hamish?" The man frowned and John secretly covered his nose from the smell of urine and booze. Thomas blinked and smacked his dry lips a couple of times as he tried to remember.

"You mean this night?" he slurred and Sherlock nodded fanatically.

"Yes! Have you seen him!?"

"Yeah, I've seen him." John staggered into the awful smell and fell to his knees beside him.  
"Where did he go? Did you see where he went?" There was a long moment of silence and Sherlock shook him back and forth.

"Where is he, Thomas!? Tell me!"

"Alright, alright!" he slurred. He scratched his thick, dirty beard before he pointed to a dark alleyway at the end of the streets and Sherlock was off, pulling John with him. In the hurry he buttoned his coat and John held on tight to his arm to keep up.

"I'll go down here, you follow the route around and we'll meet up at the middle. After that... "  
"Let's just hope we've found him by then." John finished for him and released his arm with a heavy heart as they parted. He watched his shadow disappear in the dark and he followed the streets, swiftly avoiding the icy patches and poles and he didn't even blink.

"HAMISH!?" A dog answered his call and he almost fell over the curb but quickly got back into the pace. It was cold, terribly cold and he wondered if Hamish had his coat. If not, he wouldn't last long in this weather. "HAMISH!?"

Every possible scenario traveled through his head. What if he was kidnapped, lost? What if he'd ran away? What if he... No, he couldn't even think about the last part and he shook his head to get it out of there. Of course he was still alive, Hamish was clever, even if this was stupid.

Then he reached the end of the street and he looked down the lightened alley and saw Sherlock hurrying through it.  
"I couldn't find him!" John whimpered and Sherlock just ran passed him, knowing that John would follow. "How long could he have gotten in an hour? Where do you think he's going?" The detective didn't have the answers for his questions, this way didn't lead to anything in the boy's favourite places. "Sherlock!?"

"I don't know, John!" he shouted and suddenly stopped in the middle of a crossway. He roamed the area with wide eyes and panted heavily. "I really don't know." He spun around, observed every corner, window, roof, street, alley but nothing gave him anything. The doctor swallowed and curled his hands into hard fists.

"HAMISH!?"

"Dad?" They spun around and saw their small boy stepping out of the shadows with a frown on his face.

"Oh dear lord." John quaked and staggered across the road to get to him but Sherlock made it before him. He slipped over the ice and landed on his knees before him, cupped his face and stared into his face with a sharp gaze.

"Are you alright!?" was the first thing he asked, observed his face to find any scratch or wound that could have been there, but he was clean, obviously perfectly well so Sherlock didn't wait for his answer. "What were you thinking!?" He pulled him into his shoulder and hugged him hard enough to squeeze the breath out of his little body. "Where were you!?"

"Hamish." John whimpered and fell down beside them, embraced them both and pressed his nose into Hamish's hair. "What are you doing out here?"

"I..." he began but didn't know what to tell them, not the truth that's for sure. "... took a walk."

"In the middle of the night!?" John shouted furiously and Sherlock pushed him back to give him the stare of death.

"You are not allowed to leave the house in the middle of the night by yourself, young man!" he said sharply, sounding awfully a lot like Mrs Hudson and the boy just blinked at him.

"I didn't think you would notice."

"It doesn't matter if we don't notice! You can't just leave the house like that!" Sherlock shouted and Hamish jumped by his high voice. He had never heard him so angry.

"I..." he started when John decided to stop them.

"Okay, let's discuss this in the morning." he sighed, obviously just as angry as his husband but able to control it, and pulled Hamish out of Sherlock's arms before the detective went out of line with his anger. "But we are not happy about this, Hamish. You really scared us." The boy lowered his head, stared at the ground and sighed.

"I'm sorry." he lied, but this was actually one of his proudest moments. He had scared Sherlock, that was something he never thought he would do, and also he had hidden from them both and Mycroft an whole hour before they found him. This was incredible.

"You better be." Sherlock growled and stood up to get back home, too furious to give his son another look at the moment. With the information that had reached him today, he'd really expected the worst.

* * *

**So what did you think? What do you think about Hamish's "superpower"?**

**And as always, a massive thanks to my Beta Lunalovely97.**


	6. The handsome tosser

**Kind of a short chapter but I couldn't make it longer this time. Hope you enjoy anyway.**

* * *

The way home was quiet, no one said a single word to each other and Hamish staggered behind his two fathers with a lump in his throat. Just a moment ago, this was the proudest day of his life. He'd done something no one but him was able to do. He could hide from the whole security in London, he could move from one place to another without being seen and it was the most coolest thing he'd ever done, but now...

The faces his fathers carried were faces he'd never seen before. They looked more afraid than angry, not the reaction he expected. Of course it was a stupid thing to sneak out but he thought they knew him well enough to know that he would never try anything without being certain he could handle it.

He followed their footsteps down Baker Street when Sherlock suddenly shot him a look over his shoulder. Those blue-green eyes were ice cold of anger and fear and Hamish hurried forward to take his hand, but Sherlock didn't grab it as hard as he used to. The hand was slack, not even curling around his own and that broke his heart more than the look.

"Dad?" he asked but Sherlock didn't reply. "Dad, I'm sorry." And this time he was. If he knew that him running off for an hour would make them this hurt he would never have done it. "I really am."

"I know," Sherlock answered, pulling his hand out of his to open the door and Hamish stopped on the kerb and watched him walk in without another word or look at him.

"Dad?" John turned in the doorway and glanced upon the teary eyed boy. He'd learned his lesson from all of this.

"Hamish, c'mon," he pleaded and reached out his hand but Hamish was frozen where he stood. "Come in before you get cold." But he refused to move. There was a dark pit in his stomach making his inside collapse and he sank in his shoes and lowered his head.

"I knew what I was doing." he hissed and gritted his teeth. He didn't want to cry again, it was childish to do so. "I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Then what were you doing, Hamish?" John asked, steping down on the kerb. Just the tip of his shoes got caught in his gaze and he lowered his head even more so his father wouldn't see the tears threatening to fall. "What made you go out in the middle of the night scaring both me and your dad?" Hamish couldn't answer that. Telling the truth would destroy everything that he'd just discovered. It was a secret he needed to hide if the day came that he needed to use it. "For god's sake, Hamish, you are seven years old. You haven't got a chance if someone my size would..." John silenced himself and sighed loudly, didn't want to think about all the things that could've happen.

"Mycroft is always watching." he said quickly even if he knew that it didn't apply this time, but it was worth a try.

"Mycroft told me you disappeared!" John fumed. "Even he was scared!" And with those words Hamish had to bite back the smile that twitched the corners of his mouth. There was proof that his system actually worked. "What were you up to?"  
"Nothing." he said quickly and felt the cold nibble his nose and cheeks. "I was just taking a walk." Before John could ask anymore questions Hamish hurried inside, ran up the stairs and pulled off his clothes on the way up. When he reached the hallway where he untied his shoes he heard his father turning on the kettle and he glanced at the doorway leading to the kitchen. He saw the backside of the tall detective in his silky robe. His hands was grabbing the edge of the counter hard enough for his knuckles to go white and Hamish observed him for a second, saw the anger and pain that the tall body contained because of him and the dark pit inside him ate his insides painfully.

"I am sorry, dad." he whispered before hurrying up the stairs, unable to meet whatever look the detective would give him if he turned.

John saw him before he disappeared around the corner and he braised himself to the wall to exhale all the anger and fear that had been on ice for the latest minuter. The imaginations that had run through his head since Mycroft called would probably hit his nightmares hard for days now.  
"Jesus," he groaned and staggered into the kitchen where Sherlock was making tea for himself. The curls on his head were messy and tangled, that silky robe had been put on in a hurry, the man was clearly in distress over what'd happened. "Sherlock?"

He dropped the sugar in his tea, poured in some milk and finished it all with slamming his hand to the counted. He cursed over his breath and left the tea as he hurried into the bedroom.

"Sherlock?" he called after him and was close behind to see him fall on his front on the bed. "Sherlock, you should go up and talk to him."  
"Not now, John!" he shouted into the pillow and placed the arms over his head like he tried to suffocate himself.

"Please, don't..." he sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at his feet, too tired and too worked up to go back to sleep just yet. "It was stupid of him. But.." He didn't know how to finish that sentence and Sherlock didn't know what he was trying to say.

"You were thinking exactly what I was thinking the second we knew he was gone." he murmured into the soft fabric of the sheet. He turned his head to him and sighed loudly. "He is ignorant. We need to teach him that London isn't as safe as we're trying to make it yet. Every step he takes out there right now is a gamble." He sat up and lent back to the bed frame before taking a deep breath. His eyes glossy with tears and chin slack like he'd forgotten how to breathe. And then he said something John would never forget. "I don't like being afraid, John," he spelled out as he clenched his jaw. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat and lifted his shaking hands to his lips, stared up to the roof at took a big trembling breath. "Hamish is the most important thing we've got and... he's now our weakest link. Moriarty will know exactly where to strike to make us vulnerable." He lowered his gaze and rested it upon John. "Just like last time."

The doctor knew quickly what he was referring to and a shiver travelled down his spine from the memory. The feelings of the Semtex being strapped to his front was even worse than having the barrel of a gun pointed to his head. But to think that such a thing could happen to Hamish hurt him even more.

Sherlock sighed nervously and blinked away the tears, his heaving chest was a sign of an upcoming panic attack and John moved quickly to embrace him before it hit him hard.

"Sherlock." he said calmly and let his head rest on his chest. "Don't worry. Mycroft wont let him into the city."

"Oh, what can he do?" he hissed, still fighting the tears as he pinned himself to John's t-shirt. "Mycroft is useless."

"Not at this, love." John whispered and stroked those dark curls that could make his knees weak. "He's always checking up on him. The only reason he didn't notice Hamish today is because none of us were ready for him leaving the house this late. Otherwise Mycroft would never take his eyes off him." After all, Mycroft was human. He needed sleep just as any other man and if Sherlock would blame him for that, John would give him a proper talk to.

Sherlock trembled in his arms but it eased slowly, his whimpers turned into calm breathing and John took his hand. As he stroke his thumb back and forth over his knuckles there was a careful knock on the door. Those tears sneaking down Sherlock's cheeks was quickly wiped away as the door opened and their son entered the room, still in jeans and t-shirt and head lowered. Sherlock sniffled and straightened in bed, he never wanted to look miserable in in front of Hamish.

He stood there for several seconds, wobbling back and forth on his feet with the hands in his pockets, just waiting for his parents to speak but so did they. The sound of Sherlock clearing his throat only made the stone of guilt in his stomach grow heavier and he lifted his gaze to look at them.

"I am truly sorry." he said and froze when he saw Sherlock's shaking hands. "I just... I knew you would be angry but.. I never thought you would be this hurt. I shouldn't have done it. I just had to get out of the house for a while, clear my head." Even if he lied about the walk he was telling the truth about everything else. He never wanted to hurt his parents like this again. "Do you think you can forgive me? I wont do it again." Also a lie and he hated himself for it. But how could he ignore the power he possessed? It needed to be explored further, but maybe he should keep doing it during daylight from now on.

Sherlock groaned loudly but still managed to smile. To be honest he was a tiny bit amazed that the boy had managed to disappear even from Mycroft, but it was nothing he would encourage.

"Come here, handsome," he murmured and patted the space in the bed beside him. Hamish hesitated for a second, glanced over at John who nodded over to the space and Hamish finally jumped up. He crawled over the sheet into his father's arms. Sherlock embraced him and pulled him up on his lap, cradled his head to his shoulder and played with the dark strands of hair overlapping his forehead.

"You are quite a tosser, d'you know that?" he asked with a smirk and the boy snaked his arms around his torso, pressed his cheek to his shoulder and hugged him as hard as he could. "Scaring us like that. You're a mean little idiot."

"I am not mean." Hamish scoffed. "Or little. Or an idiot!"

"Yes you are." John teased and grabbed both of his feet and held them tight as Hamish started to kick them playfully. "The tiniest meanie in London."

"Worse than Anderson." Sherlock continued and laughed, feeling the anger and fear ease inside him as he held the boy. He could forgive him.

"I'm not worse than Anderson!" Hamish yelled as John started to pull of his jeans so he could go to bed between them, Sherlock would probably not let go of him after such a scare. "No one is worse than Anderson."

"You are." Sherlock scoffed and slid down under the cover, still holding him tight. "You little meanie."

"You're the one who's mean." Hamish giggled happily and kissed his father's cheek. "Comparing me to Anderson? That's just cruel."

They went to bed together that night, snuggling up under the covers and Sherlock held little Hamish tight. Never in his life would he let the boy disappear like that again. With that man walking the earth a second time, weaving his web and sharpening his fangs, none of them were safe.

This was his family, and that's what he needed to protect.

If he only knew how difficult it would become the upcoming weeks.

* * *

**Feel free to review and wait for the next chapter, because then it will begin. (hopefully) ;)**

**And as always, a big thanks to Lunalovely97**


	7. The boy and the sub

**So, new chapter. Hope you enjoy and hopefully you'll like the new character.**

* * *

Hamish walked into school with heavy steps. Last day, his fathers had told him this was the last day before they would bring and end to this hellish situation he was in. He climbed the stairs, dragging his feet behind and not breaking his gaze from the spotted floor full of footprints and gum.

It was a fine school and Hamish liked their concept that they were allowed to wear their own clothes. No uniforms here, that's for sure. Today he'd chosen a very fitting ensemble for the end. A big mushroom explosion started at his hips and rose all the way up to his collar, bits and dust spread across his arms and shoulders. He would go out with a bang.

"Cool shirt!" a loud voice called as he entered the hallway to the classroom. Hamish looked up from the floor and roamed his way up the dirty sneakers, skinny jeans, plaided shirt and met the face of a young man in his early twenties. His blond hair was in a modern ruff-style and his dark brown eyes were warm and friendly. But yet, Hamish couldn't place him. "Atomic bombs are awesome to look at but deadly to face." the man continued with a crooked smile that wrinkled his button-nose and shoved out his unshaved shin. "You must he Hamish? Am I right?"

The boy tightened his grip around the strap of his bag and stared at him, trying to deduce who this man was. His clothes were cheap, that shirt was second hand, the sneakers were old, maybe five, seven years, the jeans were from a cheap brand. Hamish locked eyes with him.

"You're a sub." he said but he kept quiet about the man's living situation with his parents and abusive father. John had taught him not to hurt people when they didn't deserve it, and to be frank, he kind of liked this man.  
"Seb the sub." he introduced and reached out his hand. "Nice to meet you." Hamish gave him a little laugh and took his rather rough hand, he'd probably been a factory worker before. "Ready for class?" Hamish just shrugged, didn't want to lie nor tell the truth. Seb seemed interesting, he didn't know why but there was something odd about him, something worth exploring. "I heard you don't like the reading session so I'm here to take you to the quiet room."

The quiet room. The room in the attic. The small space with a comfortable armchairs and blankets that children with difficulties could hide from lessons they didn't fit in to, so naturally Hamish didn't like that idea. His brows furrowed and he took a step back.

"Why?" he asked and saw his knuckles go white by the hard grip around his bag, but Seb stayed calm, still that corky smile on his lips and boyish charm that would make any woman his age fall for him, but somehow Hamish could see hidden pain beneath that happy face, something he wanted to explore.

"I've heard you don't enjoy children stories if it's not the original series of the Brothers Grimm." he laughed and swayed back and forth on his feet with the hands in his pockets. "And sadly blood and murder isn't a propper subject to read in front of most seven-year-old. So, I'm here to join you in some quiet time." He pulled up a book from his back pocket and Hamish stared at the wrinkly cover of The Castle. "What book do you got?"

Oh..

* * *

He followed Seb up the long stairs. They passed the teachers room and break room and went up the spiral stairs into the windowless room in the small tower of the school. It was perfectly round, painted in forest green and in the cone shaped roof, small star-shaped lamps hanged on a rope. He'd never been in this room, he'd heard rumours, though. Kids told horrific stories on their recess about how it looked and how disgusted they were by the teachers sitting with them, rushing them through homework and essays. But he quickly forgot about them now that he was here. The two armchairs underneath the light welcomed him to a nice and quiet reading. He would probably enjoy spending his mornings here.

"So, left or right?" Seb asked and waved between the two armchairs, but Hamish had questions before he could just let the man join him in a relaxing room.

"Did Mycroft set you up to this?" he asked and pierced him with a sharp stare with his blue-green eyes. But to his surprise, Seb frowned and turned to look at him.

"What's a Mycroft?" he asked and that was all Hamish needed to feel calm. He didn't want Mycroft's help in school, it wasn't his responsibility. "I'm here because the school wants me to be here." he explained and picked up his phone to turn it off. "I'm a sub since Ms. Tomega left for family reasons for a month. Do you know her?"

Ms. Tomega was always seen pacing the corridors looking for kids cutting classes, but he didn't know her so he shook his head. "Well, you're on my list. I'm supposed to meet up with you every morning and just... read." He waved his book again, giving him that charming smile again that showed of his straight teeth without a single coffee stain. "Now, left or right?"

The left chair was soft and cushiony, the fluffy blanket was folded over the armrest and he twinned the soft threads sticking out of the fabric when Seb turned on the lights on the floor for him.

"So, what book are you reading?" he asked and Hamish just stared at him. "Is it in your bag?" He tightened his arms around his bag and pressed it to his chest. There were things in there he didn't want the sub to see. The human skull for example, the only friend he'd had since the day he was born. The only friend he could tell those secrets to that nobody else was allowed to hear.

"I'm not gonna snoop in your bag." Seb scoffed, retreating to his own seat. "I was just curious because the teachers tell me you've got a different interest in books than the other kids your age." So the teachers were talking about him? That wasn't a surprise. Without further notice he opened his bag and dug around amongst the many object that hid in there until he got to his book. It was old, bought back when his younger father was born, the pages browned and cover chipped at the edges, it was torn, taped and glued and Hamish treasured it more than any other book in their shelves at home.

"Bram Stoker?" Seb exclaimed and frowned when he saw the painting of Count Dracula. "Really?"

"I like the idea." Hamish mumbled and held it tight to his chest. "My dad doesn't like fiction, but I like it dark and bold." The sub looked impressed. He licked his lips and scratched his hairy chin.

"Dark and bold, huh?" he smiled, his dark eyes glittering with something familiar with awe and Hamish couldn't help but return a thin smile. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, little Hay."

The young boy grinned in silence and opened the book, glancing at the man over the pages as he read his own book. For the first time in his short life he felt something he'd never experienced from any others than his fathers and relatives.

He was liked.

* * *

The rest of the school day wasn't as hateful as he'd anticipated. The meeting with Seb kept him happy for hours and he couldn't wait until their next session tomorrow morning. As he packed up his books and papers in the locker his classmates circulated around the corridor without him noticing. It didn't matter that they didn't talk to him, it didn't matter what they thought as he passed them or looked at them. None of them mattered anymore because he had for once felt liked. Even if Seb was thrice his age he felt more like a friend than anyone had ever done, and still they hadn't really talked. They'd spent the hour sitting in a room, reading their books, sometimes casting a look over the edges before returning to the letters and Seb seemed impressed by him.

School didn't seem so hellish all of a sudden.

He hurried down the stairs in the old building, avoided the older kids that thankfully would push him around and step on his feet and he kept his eyes in the large glass doors that any other day was the way to freedom, but today they were just doors. Ordinary doors.

"OI! Hay!?"

He hated that nickname, but hearing the voice calling it made it easy to forgive. As he turned to look down the long corridor filled with kids streaming to the exit he saw Seb running down the stairs, waving a book in the air. With the breath caught in his throat he stopped before him and grabbed his arm, pulling him away from all the people and over to the stone pillar.

"I forgot to give you this." A thick leather notebook landed in his small hands, a string wound around the cover and knotted around a shimmery button in the middle and Hamish stared at it for a long time. "It's a diary." Seb explained, swallowing hard from the long run. "Write in it as often as you feel like. You don't have to show me or any one else. It's just..." He nibbled his bottom lip as he tried to find the right word. "An experiment!" Hamish twitched and looked up from the book, stared at the young man with big eyes. "Not for me but for you. I know you have a lot of thoughts bundled up in that big brain of yours." One of his short fingers poked the middle of Hamish's forehead as he smiled. "Maybe you should write some of it down in case you forget. Ideas that might seem bad at the present time might be bright in the future."

Hamish smiled, joyfully this time. This man was no idiot, not a 'normal' person as his dad would put it. He grasped the book painfully hard and locked his gaze upon the young sub that so amazingly wanted to take an interest in his weird life. Maybe if Seb didn't look like much to the world with his ruff-hairstyle and cheap clothing, but he was still different from all the others Hamish had met so far in his life. Seb was special, worthy of his time and friendship.

"Seb." he smiled and the young man crouched before him, ending up in his eye level and Hamish could finally read his face closely. "Can I show you something?"

"Of course." Seb said eagerly and tied a thick black scarf around his long neck, making himself ready to run out in the cold weather.

"Promise you wont get mad." he pleaded and pressed the diary to his chest as he made himself prepared to either make or break his new friend.

"I can never promise such a thing." he grinned and reached down his pockets on his jacket to find his gloves. "But I can't see how someone like you could make me mad." That was all Hamish needed to get intrigued. He turned off the world around him, the passing students disappearing from his sight and the sound fading into deep silence as he observed the man in front of him. Every scar, spot, mark, crease and wrinkle was caught by him and he took a huge breath before he began. "Your real name is Sebastian and you live at home with your parents. Not because of your money problems but because you were injured in a motorbike accident that killed your girlfriend. You're just released from rehab as you got addicted to the painkillers you took after the accident and you are recovering a broken back as I can see. You're a smoker trying to quit but you still enjoy one before bed. You studied to become a teacher but got hospitalised before your exam and never finished, that's why you're a sub. And you hate living at home because your father is abusive, not to you but to your mother. He doesn't hit, he's a name-caller."

As the deduction finished, the world reappeared. He could finally see the feelings forming in Sebastian's face and what emotions he was carrying and this was the moment that scared him the most. But to his relief, and surprise, Sebastian was looking.. amazed. He blinked continuously with his brown eyes and gaped as he tried to find the words he was looking for.

"H-how... All that..." Even if tears prickled his eyes he still smiled, laughed over his breath and shook his head. "Jesus..."

"That's one of the secrets I carry." Hamish whispered and the man tore his gaze from his to look at the floor. "It's not something I'm proud of, but it's something I'm good at."

"That..." Sebastian breathed, chest heaving as all of his own secrets was out in the open air. "That's fantastic, Hamish." The brown eyes met his again and he just stared at him with a great amazement. "It's a superpower! Really! But..."

"I'm not throwing it out to everyone." Hamish said quickly. "Just... the people I feel like I can trust." Sebastian shook his head again, still smiling with teared eyes as all the memories hunted his brain, all because of a seven-year-old.

"But we've just met." he smirked.

"And I already know everything about you." Hamish chuckled and hugged the book a little tighter to his chest. "And I choose the people I trust with much care." Those words made Sebastian laugh and he reached over to mess with Hamish's dark hair.

"Since I'm not as awesome as you, I guess you'll have to tell me a little bit about yourself tomorrow then. My secrets can't be the only one's out in the open, can they?"

"I guess." Hamish murmured.

"And you'll tell me how you did that trick."

"It's not a trick."

* * *

The air of Baker street was filled with oatmeal cookies and curry this afternoon. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson was baking for her boys since she'd heard about Hamish's troubled school year and she knew exactly what kind of cookies would cheer him up. Upstairs, on the other hand, John was making a simple casserole. Not because of hunger, but because in the other room the Holmes's brothers were talking and he used cooking as a simple get-away.

He didn't hear what they discussed, or maybe he just didn't want to, but he was sure it was about the recent event in the palace with Hamish's sudden attack. Maybe Mycroft wanted to excuse himself for what had happened. Hopefully not, John thought, as an excuse would only make Sherlock smug.

He stirred the pot with the yellow casserole containing chicken, carrots and celery and felt the sweat of the heat tickle his neck and temple, hopefully it wouldn't be to spicy for Hamish. That's when he heard the door and he turned away from the stove, glancing through the open door into the hallway and listened.

"Hamish?" he called as he heard the thumping of his shoes running up the stairs. The small boy in the big winter coat, his face hidden under the scarf and hat, ran into the kitchen and threw his bag up on the table. His small hands started to pull off the clothes and thats when John saw something he hadn't seen his son do for a long time. A smile brightened his face, a happy, genuine, actual smile. John stopped everything he was doing at the moment and just stared at the boy, he was literary glowing with happiness like all the pain caused by school had just been swept away.

"Something you want to tell me?" he asked happily, putting the wooded spoon before rounding the kitchen table to lift him up for a hug. Hamish giggled and jumped up in his arms. He hugged him hard with his face hidden to his neck and John held him tight.

"There's a new sub at school." he started eagerly and was almost shaking with happiness in John's arms. "And he and I are gonna read together every morning and he's really nice and he didn't even complain when I deduced him and he thinks I'm interesting and I am really looking forward to get to read with him every morning!" he blabbered in one breath and John tried to keep up with all the words rushing out of his mouth.

"A sub?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"And what are you reading with him?"

"Dracula?"

"You're both reading the same book?"

"Of course not! He's reading his own book and I'm reading mine!"

"Oh." John beamed. "Are you in the quiet room when you read?"

"Yes. And it's not that bad actually. We just sit there for an hour, reading. His name's Sebastian and he's really interesting. He's reading The Castle."

John had never seen his son glowing so amazingly bright in such beautiful human colours. Those cheeks were blossoming in pink, his eyes twinkled and his skin was prickled with the anticipation. Maybe this Sebastian was sent by the angels, or more likely Mycroft, but that didn't matter.

Hamish was happy.

"Hello Hamish!" a voice chimed and Hamish turned in his father's arms to the sitting room. There in the doorway, his uncle stood with the thin smile on his face, leaning half his weight on the expensive umbrella. "Feeling better I see." The boy squirmed out of John's grip and slid down on the floor. They hadn't seen each other since the event at the palace and Hamish was ashamed of the accident of with the pain.

"Much better." he said weakly leaning on John's legs. He grasped his jeans with one hand and held on tight. Three days had passed since he visited the palace but it was something he wouldn't forget for a long time, possibly never.

"My brother was just leaving." Sherlock called from the sitting room and began to tune his violin loudly as he moved over to the window. "He doesn't enjoy small talk." But Mycroft stayed where he stood and stared at little Hamish with wide eyes, making the poor boy uncomfortable.

"How did you do it?" he suddenly asked and John looked up from the dark hair he'd been stroking.

"Do what?" Hamish asked, pressing himself closer to his father who'd gone tense.

"What are you talking about?" John asked and the older brother gave the umbrella a spin. He pressed his lips together into a thin smile and took a step closer.

"No one simply hides from me," he said suspiciously joyful and Hamish went mute before him. Never in his life would he tell his secret. Not now, not later, not ever. Suddenly he felt very small where he stood. He lowered his head and stared at his shoes where the snow had started to melt off the laces,there was now a puddle beneath him.

"I..." he stuttered and felt his father's hands on his shoulders. "I.."

"You're leaving, Mycroft!" Sherlock called without turning away from the window. "We'll see you another day. Just as awful as this one."

The brother gave Hamish a last long stare, breathed deeply and the grip around Hamish's shoulders became more protective.

Then Mycroft left without another word and Hamish stood frozen in the floor. Did Mycroft suspect something? And if he did, what exactly? John eased his grip if his jeans and picked him up from the floor again.

"Don't listen to him." he smiled and carried him over to the counter where he put him down to join him in the rest of the cooking, but it was to late. That thin smile on the older Holmes's lips was the beginning of something, Hamish knew it. From now on, he needed to be more careful.

Then the violin was soon singing in the flat and the boy would always admire the graceful touch his father had on it. The tunes filling the air together with the smells of curry and oatmeal cookies made him forget quickly about Mycroft stares and suspicion. After all, home would always be safe.

Always...

* * *

**So leave a review, they'll always make me happy.**


	8. The weight of bombs an loneliness

**New chapter! Whoo! Hope you enjoy it**

* * *

He yawned big enough for his jaw to dislocate and rubbed his eye, this was the second night in a row he hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes those horrible pictured flickered before his eyes so he had to keep himself awake. Coffee, a lot of coffee, and then more coffee. He sipped his strong drink and tried to concentrate on the show on the telly but he'd already forgotten what it was about. He blinked tiredly and stroke the fingers through his hair.

"John?" He lifted his heavy head and looked at Sherlock sitting in his chair putting new strings on his violin and tuned it ever so carefully. "Get some rest, please. Your yawning is disturbing." John laughed and fell to his side on the sofa.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," he grinned. He placed his legs over the armrest, his feet dangling over the floor and his slippers clung to his toes. The roof became very interesting for a moment as the straight lines waved back and forth, not a good sign according to the doctor within him, he did need sleep or he would become delusional. "Would you mind plying for me a while when you're done?" Hearing Sherlock play was the only cure he had for nightmares. To hear his tunes traveling the air was more than just music to his ears.

"Why do you think I got new strings?" his husband answered with a loving smirk and lifted the violin to his shoulders, turned off the telly and started playing. As the bow touched the strings that man could do wonders with those long fingers. John knew exactly how careful they could be but he also knew the power within them. Those were the devil's hands.

The doctor felt his body go limp and his head fell to the side in exhaustion. He closed his eyes and covered them with his arm and let the darkness surround him. This was the first day in a long time that he could actually feel relaxed. Hamish came home smiling these days, all the secrets was out and he had nothing to hide anymore. His heart that had been heavy for so long did finally beat without pain.

Soon enough the tiredness overcame him and his jaw went slack. The music around him turned him away from all the bad dreams and he could only dream of home, because hearing these tunes would always be home.

Sherlock lowered his instrument when he heard John's calm breathing, he was finally asleep, something Sherlock had wanted him to do for hours now. Carefully he put the violin back in its case and loosened the bow before he sneaked over to the couch. He grabbed John under his arms and pulled him over the cushions to place him in a more comfortable position and the man groaned in his sleep, not enough to wake him up, though, since he'd been awake for thirty-two hours straight.

He took the union jack pillow from the armchair and placed it under his heavy head, took off his slippers and placed the warm blanket around him. The last thing John needed was to get nightmares right now and things that smelled like home would always be important.

So he made tea. Earl grey in the matter of fact. John always drank earl grey in the afternoon. He sipped the tea, sat down by his microscope and watched spores that'd been attached to the woman from the wood chipper. In the silence he listened to John's breath and made sure they were steady, one single change in those calm breaths could quickly turn into horror and Sherlock needed to be prepared, something he'd picked up during these years with John.

But somewhere during his experiment, he must have been slipping away from it and into a deep concentration in what he was doing. Before he could even register what the sound was John was already tossing and turning on the sofa.

His moaning was always painful to listen to and Sherlock almost wished that John could be one of those that kicked and screamed during nightmares. John did it differently. He was pinned to the bed, clutching his head or the sheets. squirming like he's bound or held down. Sometimes he screamed and sometimes he just lay there, panting and moaning in pain. The worst moments were when he talked. There had been many different scenarios were he'd called out commands to soldiers and sometimes he screamed their real names. Sherlock had learnt five different names of men from John's group and every name and at laest once been screamed in loss. Sherlock knew that that was the voice of seeing a friend die, because he had heard it. He had once been the friend dying.

He hurried over to the sofa and leaned over the man who was currently pinned to the bed with invisible ropes and he cupped his head.

"John!" he called out and examined his face. He could easily tell by his features what he was dreaming about, this time it wasn't the war. "John!"  
He moaned loudly in pain and locked his jaw in an attempt to not cry out. He arched his neck and tried to squirm out of his grip. "John, you're safe!" He pulled his hand off the cover and pressed his hands to John's chest, stroked it over the ribs to let him remember this wasn't the incident. "Feel! There's nothing there!" and John looked confused. He furrowed is brow and opened his mouth to take a deep breath. "Do you feel it, John? There's nothing there!" He let go of his hand and John continued to search his chest for anything that could be harmful or deadly, and when he couldn't find anything he started to come back. A long breath left his throat and he opened his eyes to look down on his chest. Still panting for air he fell back on the pillow and roamed the room after something familiar.

"John?" Sherlock murmured and placed a cold hand on his cheek. John's blue eyes found his and he gave him a sharp look full of worry. "Please.."

All the doctor could do was groan and lean into the touch of his hand. He'd already forgotten what he'd dreamt about and he had woken up with nothing more than a request.

"Please." he mumbled and made himself comfortable on the sofa once again. "Play some more."

Sherlock did, and John finally slept for a reasonable amount of time for the detective's liking.

* * *

A week passed after the first meeting with Sebastian and their friendship grew for each day. Even though the only time they really talked was when they greeted each other when they met and when they parted, Hamish still felt like he knew him better than any teacher at school. Sometimes during sessions they would cast each other a glance and a smile which Hamish enjoyed the most about these hours, those small moments was the friendliest he'd ever encountered.

Dracula had come to its final sentence yesterday before bedtime and today when he opened his bag Sebastian quivered when he saw the new book he'd got. Even if it was relatively new, Hamish had read it enough times to damage the back of the cover and to chip the edges. Sebastian gave it a quick flip through before giving it back, his brown eyes gazed upon the zombie-woman on the cover.

"That is an awesome book." Seb chuckled and staggered back to his own chair. "Sadly, I forgot my own today, so I thought that, maybe, we could talk instead." He left the yellowish page and saw how the sub drummed his fingers on his knees. "If that's okay with you of course? You still haven't told me how you did that trick that's not a trick." The laugh that left him as he said it made Hamish smile shyly and he kicked his shoes off. They landed with a thud on the floor and he crawled up on the cushion and made himself as small as possible. He closed the book and balanced it on the armrest before taking a deep breath.

"My father is a detective." he answered and suddenly realised that this was the first time he talked about his father with someone that didn't know him already. No one had never put an interest in either his father or himself before. "He's um... different. He's taught me everything there is to know about detective work so I can bring on his legacy when he's to old or dead."

"Yes, but how did you do it?" Seb interrupted and leaned closer to the boy facing him, entwining his fingers and leaned his scruffy shin to them. "How did you know all that?"

"I didn't know." Hamish smiled and realised how much he actually started to sound like his dad. "I... saw." Those brown eyes before him widened and he blinked confusedly. "You're dressed in cheep or old clothes which tells me you haven't had a serious job for a long time. You've had those shoes for four years and there's a dent in the rubber caused by heat when you swing your leg over the bike and accidentally touched the exhaustion pipe. You can't stand for too long because your spine can't handle the pressure and you always crack your neck when you sit down, something that will never go away I'm afraid. When you turned off your phone last week and got a look of your screensaver, a girl you're age but three years old since the shop it was taken in closed the exact amount of time. If she was still alive you would have changed it and every time you look at your phone you smile but you still look sad and guilty. I've seen that look before to recognise loss. The reason why you always check your phone is because you always keep close contact with your mother. You're a good son, always checking up on her while your father's at work."

"How do you know my father's at work?" Sebastian asked and tilted his head to the right.

"That shirt is three sizes too big for you and smell of motor oil and gasoline. I guessed you've taken a distance from every vehicle since your accident so that leaves out that your father is a mechanic. A nine-to-five occupation if you ask me."

Sebastian laughed and squeezed his hands, shook his head in disbelief and looked a little scared so Hamish closed his mouth, but Sebastian wasn't done. "Please, do carry on. What about the name-calling? The smoking? The um.. painkillers and all that?" Hamish took a deep breath and felt his fingers itch, he started to understand why his father did this to everyone he met. This was fun.

"Well, you're not bruised but every time you get a text you frown with worry. But you're a strong man who would pull your mother out of a situation if it would become violent, this is mostly a guess. You are alway in pain, real pain. But you never take anything for it. When you're not thinking about it you search your pockets, a habit of yours, but when you can't find anything you starts to nibble your lip, clear signs of addiction. You're fingertips are yellowed but fading. Your hair but not your clothes smell of cigarette which means you're in your pyjamas when you smoke. Therefore I guess you take one before bed."

He was done, and so was Sebastian. The sub couldn't hear another word before his mind would explode. He fell back in the chair and took a deep breath as he pressed his hands to his face, chuckled when his whole life was just blurted out by a seven-year-old.

"Jesus, Hamish." he grinned, it looked like he tried to pull his face of his bone structure and he sighed loudly.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked,snaking his arms around his legs and leaning his chin against his knees. Sebastian could only laugh as he shook his head.

"No." he breathed. "You're right.. about every single thing." He took another deep breath and shook his head. "That's a mighty gift you've got there. You should be careful with that, you never know who you might piss off." That was something he already knew very well. "Now, tell me about you. Your father's a detective, you say. What do your mother do then?"

"Oh. I don't have a mother." Hamish said quickly and Sebastian froze in his seat, a common reaction when he answered that question.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I..."

"No, it's nothing like that!" he grinned and shook his head. "I've got two fathers. One detective and one doctor." When that information reached his friend he frowned happily and leaned closer again, cracked his neck and squeezed his hands.  
"I see. Not everyone's so lucky to get two." he chuckled. "And what are your interests? Except books. Do you, for example, want to take on your father's legacy?"

That was all he ever wanted. When his dad would become too old, when his eyes and vessel would fail him, Hamish wanted the one to take on the title as 'the worlds only consulting detective'. That was his goal in life, that's why solving crimes was so important for him.

"Of course." he answered with a big smile, pulling threads from the fluffy red blanket again.

"It's good to have future plans." Sebastian beamed. "Detective then. Don't get enough blood and gore in your books?"

"Not nearly enough." he scoffed and tapped his fingers on his book. "I'm raised into this world with the truth in my back pocket. I've seen another side of reality that would give the other kids nightmares for weeks. I, on the other hand, get excited when I open the newspaper and read about homicides and crimes. That's why..." He stopped himself just in time. The fact that his interests was the reason for his loneliness in school and his lack of friends would always be painful to talk about. "That's why I don't have any friends." he quaked and tore a nail from his finger. "I scare them." For a moment he managed to hold back his tears, he hated to cry in front of people, but then Sebastian asked him something that made it impossible.

"Do you feel alone, Hamish?" It felt like an arrow to the heart. He curled up in the chair, held his legs tightly to his chest and his his face to his knees. The tears burned the back of his eyes and he tensed up so he wouldn't sob grossly. He held his breath, just wishing that he could sink through this chair, through the floor and just sink into oblivion where no one could see him.

"Hamish?" Sebastian tried, his voice sounded calmer but not worried. "Please, I do not wish to harm you. What ever you say in this room won't leave this walls." His body started to tremble, how much he even tried to keep himself together it was impossible. Tears started to stream and his nose clogged up, but he didn't dare to open his mouth to breathe because if he did, he would cry out loudly. Then he heard the raspy sounds of the other chair being pulled closer and he pressed himself against the back of his own. "Take a deep breathe. C'mon Hay." He opened his mouth, breathed in the foul air that would always remind him of school and a silent sob slipped over his lips.

"I don't exist in this place." he cried. "I could walk through this school without anyone noticing. Not even the teachers in this place care whether I'm here or not." He took a moment to breath and he listened to the room, just like his father had taught him to while having a panic attack. He listened to the buzzing star-shaped lamps, to the small sounds that Sebastian made, the droning pipes in the walls and the wind whistling through the cracks in the old building. "They never address me in class because they know that every time I open my mouth I will prove them wrong in of their theories." And then something occurred to him. It wasn't only when he walked through town as he could feel invisible, he just needed to get to school and he would be that involuntarily.

"Do your fathers know about this?" Sebastian asked him and Hamish felt his fingers on his left arm, he didn't pull away. He nodded and smothered a sob that was stuck in his throat.

"They.." he sniffled. "They were going to have a meeting but I... I stopped it. I don't want any of my classmates as friends. I don't want to be friends with anyone that's afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you." Sebastian said quickly and tightened the grip around his thin arm. Hamish choked on his sob and swallowed the saliva thick as syrup. "Why would I? You're the most brilliant boy I've ever worked with. You're even more intelligent than most of the people my age and definitely more interesting." Hamish managed to utter a pathetic laugh over his breath and he turned his head to the side so he could breath but did not have to look at Sebastian, he felt embarrassed and exposed. No wonder people got mad when he or his father deduced them.

"Have you've been writing in that diary I've got you?" Sebastian asked and circled his thumb over his skin. Hamish nodded, he'd been writing in it every day, secrets and events. Right now it was mostly filled with his adventures in town as he experimented with his new abilities, routes and how many minutes it took from start to destination. He'd found three different ways to get to school without being seen, and during the longer recesses he would always escape to explore further and had found seven blind spots around school. This also meant he could never leave to book around, it needed to be close to him or hidden just if the wrong people got hold of it.

"Every day." he sniffled and wiped his nose with the arm of his cardigan.

"Does it do anything for you?" Sebastian continued and Hamish turned his head to him. He knew what he must have looked like, eyes swollen and red, cheeks burning and nose running, but Sebastian didn't seem to notice his gross face. He just furrowed, eyebrows knitted together over his button nose and lips pressed firmly into a thin smile.

"I don't know yet." he sighed and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. "I'm not really using it for emotions and such."

"Then what are you using it for?"

"Secrets." he said and heard himself giggle. It sounded ridiculous but it was true. "Things I can't really talk about to my parents."

"Sounds like a good thing." Sebastian grinned. "Something you would like to share?" He quickly shook his head and forced a smile to his trembling lips.

"Not yet." he breathed. "Someday maybe, but not today." The sub sighed loudly and took a look at his watch strapped around his wrist with a leather band.

"Look, I've got a plan." he smiled and took his phone out of his pocket. "I'm writing you up for both maths and english today, okay? We'll have a little walk around the school." Hamish sniffled and looked up from his tear-soaked knees.

"Outside?" he asked and Sebastian nodded.

"Some fresh air could do us both some good."

* * *

**What did you think? Leave a review! Next chapter will be up soon enough. And as always a great thanks to my lovely beta lunalovely97**


	9. Socks! Shoes! Coat!

**Okay, so here we are, and here it begins...**

* * *

It was cold outside. Really cold. It bit his cheeks and nose and he hid his hands in his warm pockets and brought his shoulder up to his ears. He thought about the Christmas song that played on the radio every morning mentioning Jack Frost. The ground was salted and graveled and he wished he'd chosen some thicker shoes than converse, ones that could stand the slush better. His socks were already soaked and his toes were stiff. Sebastian walked beside him as they made their way down the long trail to the little park in front of the parking lot. The branches of the young trees were heavy with snow and the bushes were covered in white. Even if Hamish hated the winter, he still found it beautiful. He liked the frost covering the windows, the patches of ice he could run towards and then slide across when he made his way home from school or when he was exploring his invisibility.

His friend stared at the trees reaching for the grey sky and his breaths left his mouth in white fog, Hamish could tell he pretended he was smoking. But something felt off about him, he squeezed his hands more often. his gaze flickered between the sky and the parking lot and once and a while he stared at his watch, maybe he had another appointment to get back to.

"I had a hard time too you know." Seb suddenly sighed and his hand searched his pocket again. When there was nothing to find he blink as he was reminded and sighed in frustration. "When I was a kid, I mean." They stopped on the trail and Hamish kicked the snow of his shoes, stared at the gravel and found a rock deeply buried in the ice that he decided to kick loose. "I didn't have many friends, but the ones I did have weren't really nice." He sighed again and spun around to face him. Hamish had never seen him carry that face before, he looked grey in his skin, sad and hurt and the little boy didn't know what to say or do to ease the tension. "I don't know what's best. To have bad friends or none at all and I don't believe anyone can but... " He started walking again and Hamish followed him quickly, almost had to jog to keep up in his quick steps and he kept his eye on his friend's painful face. They passed the trees and bushes, got closer and closer to the parking lot and Hamish waited for him to finish the sentence. "People will always be weird, little Hay. Unpredictable and false, sometimes even evil."

That was the world Hamish was raised in. There was so much evil in this world and he had seen some of it close. Unpredictable, false and evil people were the once who made his life thrilling, if the world was without them what would he have left? The day man discovered violence was the day society fell. The day society fell was the day his job was born.

"I guess your father would be without a job if the world was peaceful." Sebastian smirked but pain was trapped in his voice, like the words he was speaking was connected to himself somehow. "Or what do you say, little Hay?"

The boy stared at the smiling sub for what seemed like long, slow-ticking minutes. The friendliness in those brown eyes had suddenly left, they were just pure ebony in the white shine from the snow. The smile on his lips turned thin and he furrowed his brow like he expected something bad.

And that's when Hamish realised what was going on. This was a blind spot, one of the seven locations he'd discovered and scribbled down in his book and then things started to get clear in his messy brain.

Something _was_ about to happen.

"Seb..." he breathed, taking a step back to get away from him. Something didn't feel right. "What are we really doing out here?" The sub straightened his grey hat and stepped forward, but Hamish didn't want to be close to him. Those words that the sub had spoken were ringing in his ears. People will always be weird, little Hay. Unpredictable and false, sometimes even evil.

A shiver traveled down his spine and he tore his gaze from that face that had been so friendly these last couple of days, now it just seemed antagonistic. Something wasn't right about him, there was something Hamish had missed.

He needed to get on camera** right** now.

He heard tires shrieks not far away,the sudden loud noise making him jump. Mycroft was all he'd have now, he needed to be seen. But it was too late, Sebastian grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into his arms and Hamish's face was suddenly buried in the large glove. His screams and shouts were now muffled and the only chance he'd have now was to fight. He kicked and squirmed but Sebastian was stronger of course. There was no chance Hamish would get out of this. The fear overcame him like a cold shower and he clawed at Sebastian's thick jacket as he saw the black car pull in. This had only been a scenario in his nightmares, he never thought he would live the day to experience. He felt small, robbed of his dignity and he was mad. How could he have not seen this coming?

"NO! Please don't!"

Could there have been clues he'd missed? Was there anything that had passed his usual observation? He had never been so disappointed at himself as now. How could he have been this stupid? This would probably be the end of his short life.

The car door opened on the black car and Hamish braced his feet against the tire, pushing away as hard as he could. He would not give up without a fight. The curses rolled over his tongue and he felt the bruises being punched into his milky skin, he ached and his body burned from the struggle.

"Don't touch me!" he shouted as Sebastian wrestled him to the wet ground. Those dark eyes had never been so intimidating or threatening, it wasn't the man he'd gotten to know, if he'd ever really known him that is. This was a false figure. Nothing more than a mercenary doing this for money, he was sure of it. The hatred grew in his chest as the man hooked his arms around his legs and he screamed as loudly as he could when the hand slipped off his mouth. That car might be his final destination and the only thing going through his head, as he deduced that resistance was useless, went to his fathers. Just if he could meet them once more, but before he could elaborate on that thought he felt the sting in his left upper arm. Drugged then, those cowards.

* * *

Something about this day didn't feel right, like it wasn't just the weather that was threatening. Every breath entering him felt foul and he caught himself sighing multiple times. Everything he did felt wrong, just talking and eating breakfast was hard. The water didn't clean him, the food didn't taste, clothes weren't comfortable. Not even tea could calm him, his insides were spinning worriedly and he stomped his feet to the floor. Nothing was as it used to.

Sherlock mentioned it the third time he moved over to the windows, watching out over the streets with his eyebrows knitted together.

"John?" the detective murmured while looking in his microscope. "Is something bothering you?" What could he answer? To say 'I've got a bad feeling' would only sound like idiotic and would probably make his husband irritated.

"No." he sighed and fell down on the sofa. "Just stressed, I guess."  
"From what? You've done nothing out of the ordinary these last couple of days." the detective continued and wiped his hands on the soaked towel beside the blood samples. "Or is there something I've missed." The last sentence was a monotonic joke that he'd started with since they got married. Sherlock always chuckled after saying it, John did it only those times when the detective was observant of his reaction. That joke was getting old.

"D'you want some distraction?" the man in the kitchen asked with his dark voice and lifted his gaze and placed it dangerously upon his doctor in the sofa. Those usually blue-green eyes had changed into a shade of darkness that was a sign of his arousal and John turned were he sat. Sex was distracting.

"Now?" he grinned and felt his heart take a leap by the thought. It had truly been a long time since they'd spent time together in such ways and Sherlock shot him a crooked smile. "Alright."

Sherlock dropped everything he was doing by the table and made his way over the floor with swift moves and his bare feet didn't make a sound to the floor. Agile as he was he quickly straddled his husband and snaked his arms around his neck. With tender lips he kissed his neck and jaw and John hummed happily as he pinned himself to those bony shoulders.

"Is it really me who needs the distraction? Or you?" he asked and leaned into the touch of those heart shaped lips.

"Just shut up." Sherlock growled and silenced him with a deep kiss, forced his tongue passed his lips and worked it sensually. A moan slipped over John's lips as those slender fingers unbuttoned his shirt and the warm fingertips touched his sensitive skin. The detective caressed his torso and John grabbed a hold of the dark curls on the top of his head, tugged the slightly since that man loved a little pain.

There's always an alarming amount of yearning in the detective's touch, like John is something he'll never get tired of exploring. He traced his skin, every feature, scar, dent and mishap on his body and John remember that he never even winched when he saw the web of meshed up flesh on his shoulder the first time he took his clothes off in front of him. Those blue-green eyes had just turned to a cold shade of steel grey and his slender fingers touched the hardness carefully and a dangerously level of need made his milky skin prickle, even after all these years would Sherlock never stop amazing him.

Then, like on cue, they were interrupted by a loud ring coming from the coat hanging over the rack and John's stomach turned in worry again. Something was really not right about this day, not at all.

The navy coat waved in the air as the detective pulled it loose and growled irritably, he never liked being distracted from his distractions. The screen of the device blinked fanatically as he fished it up from the deep pocket and John re-buttoned his shirt and smothered the wild hair that Sherlock had caused him, always a side effect from foreplay.

The detective answered coldly and John just waited for him to explain exactly why the man or woman on the other side had interrupted and made a fool out of them both, but those expected words never came. Sherlock tore his gaze from the floor and placed a pair of darkened eyes upon him, danger and fear inhabited that stare he was given and John's bad feelings about this day quickly seemed to have been a divination. He suddenly forgot how to button, how to breathe, even how to swallow the saliva watering his mouth and he just stared at his husband as he spoke incoherent words into to the speaker of his phone. Something had happened, something worse than neither Sherlock's detective work or John's locum-work would ever dream of interfere with and all the desire and yearning from before swept away.

"Sherlock?" he quaked and the pale man before him was suddenly whiter than the snow falling outside. He hung up and held the phone over his chest, had enough for his knuckles to go white and he the short words he'd spoken was slowly scrambled together into understandable sentences in John's brain.

"Hamish is gone." Sherlock gulped and John froze where he sat with his heart in his throat. There was a long moment of silence, like the information just given needed to be processed for at least a minute before it could sink in fully and during that time John found himself holding his breath.

"What?" he suddenly stammered and heaved himself up from the sofa. "What do.."

"He was last seen this morning with the new sub. He wrote Hamish up for a three hour long session but neither of them are found at school grounds." he explained very calmly but with a clear fear trapped in his dark voice. "That sub..."

John felt his knees go soft underneath him and he staggered to grab hold of his husband before he fell. The detective was still holding his phone painfully hard and his bare toes dug into the carpet underneath him. He was now pinned to the floor in case of a sudden speedup by the earth or universe and his long arms slackened as John grabbed them both.

"Who were you talking to? Who called?" he asked and tried to match his calm tone even if all he wanted to do in this moment was scream, run out the door and search every part of London and the rest of the word until his little boy was back in his arms again. All he needed was to feel that familiar weight of his body, smell his minty shampoo and stroke his dark velvety hair. Right now the only thought was if the last time he'd ever been able to do that was this morning as he held him before he walked off to school. What if that would be the last time he would ever see him again.

"It was the principal. They've declared a lock-down, no one's getting in or out. But he's nowhere to be found, John." That dark, rumbling voice was breaking, a Sherlock John had never seen was making its way up to the surface of the usually strong and emotionless detective.

How could they still be this calm? Why had neither of them panicked yet? Maybe it was just a matter of time, that all the danger and death they'd faced together had lowered their reaction of situations like this, but still, they were two of the few who quickly knew what had to be done in a moment like this.

"We need to phone Lestrade." John breathed and took the phone out of his hand. "Go put on some clothes, we're going to the school. We need to find out who this Sebastian is."

But Sherlock didn't move. His toes were still pinned to the carpet and his vessel didn't listen to his commands. The fear had gotten to him stronger than ever before, and he was neither drugged or in any sort of danger himself.

His little boy. His little Hamish was right now out there all by himself, probably fighting for his freedom or life and here he stood, for the first time without a clue. How could he not have seen this coming? Abomination was the word for himself, failure, he was a joke for calling himself a detective when he couldn't even keep his own son safe from harm and crooks. And even more disturbing, how could he call himself a good father?

Suddenly it was John who had to take on his role as a solider to make things happen in the flat.  
"Sherlock!" he shouted and the detective jumped where he stood. "Socks! Shoes! Coat! We're going to the school, and I'm phoning Lestrade so he can meet us there!"

Time moved quickly after that. None of them would ever be able to remember the rest what happened in the flat as they made themselves ready to run out the door. The call made to Lestrade was a conversation John never would keep on his mind. As soon as this event was over, he would let Sherlock teach him how to delete information and memories. As soon as he could hold his boy again he would forget about this. Because he was going to hold his boy again.

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**Don't hate me...**

**Please leave a review and the next chapter will be up as soon as possible. And a big thanks to my beta lunalovely97**


	10. Where's the boy? Where's the skull?

**I'm sorry about the cliffhanger. I hope you're not too mad at me. Sadly the pain continues. **

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Their taxi followed the police car shrieking with its sirens in a dangerous speed. London passed in a colourful blur outside the windows but none of them noticed the town that they always paid such a respect to. Sherlock had thrown a huge amount of tip at the driver and ordered him sharply to step the peddle as hard a he could with his boot-clothed feet stained by something that spread a foul odour in the small space they shared.

Sock, shoes and coat had been thrown on in a hurry and it wasn't until now that the detective realised the different shades of blue sticking out of his shiny shoes, the laces clumsily tied into something that wasn't able to be called a knot and the clothes on his body didn't fit him properly. There was no time to straighten them now, what importance did his clothing have at this moment?

The doctor squeezed his hands monotonically, ripped nail after nail off his fingers and stared into the bliss of nothingness as they travelled. Time passed without his observation around him and his head was filled with unwelcome fantasies of what their little boy could be going through at this moment and hoped that what ever the kidnappers intentions were it would be the harm of Hamish. If he would find as much as a bruise on his little boy, the cause of them would meet a destiny more cruel than he or she could ever imagine. Their flesh would be their source of winter warmth in their fireplace if Hamish had come to harm.

The car came to a sudden stop, the never noticed when they drove up the long trail passed the parking lot and the park, but here they suddenly were. John was the fist one to step outside and he took a cold look over the school ground and the old castle-like building.

"John!?" a familiar voice called and John saw the grey hair shine in the bright light as the DI hurried across the snow with the beige coat swaying by his shins, he almost slipped with his expensive shoes on a slippery patch but managed to make his way without tripping. He untied his big scarf and pushed it down his pocket. "Have you phoned Mycroft?"

"Not yet." he quaked and blinked confusedly. "But I guess he would call us if he'd seen anything by now." Then they both saw the dark shadow of Sherlock hurrying across the big yard, cross the football field with painted lines hidden under the snow and over to the entrance of the backside of the school. The big doors looked intimidating to the doctor and would always do. This was his old school, none of the years spent here were a pleasure looking back on. Those doors had always been a sign of captivity as he entered and a sign of freedom as he exited.

He called after his husband and jumped over the pile caused by the snow shovelling and took of after him, avoiding the icy patched and cared to take his steps where the gravel covered most of the snow. Sherlock swung the heavy door open with one pull and stepped inside with so much determination in his steps that not even an earthquake could put him off balance at this moment. This was a Sherlock John would always have a certain fear against. This side would always be intimidating and unpredictable, dangerous in hostile situations and the solider needed to keep a sharp eye on him before hell would brake loose around the man.

The school smelled of dust and that oily scent of crayons, walls was covered with colourful art made by students of every age in the lobby and those walls was and would never be decorated by their boy. His interest for arts would never be something worth exploring in.  
The fat principal stood ready for their arrival by the desk, wearing the cheap ensemble as always stained with coffee and crumbs of different biscuits. Sherlock wrinkled his nose when he saw him and stretched his neck and back to make himself as tall as possible. No one could stand up to the detective as he made himself this big, something he'd come to notice during the times he interrogated suspects and sure enough the principal shrunk in his position and looked smaller even though his precent in body fat made him heavier and bigger than most of the personal at this school.

"Tell me exactly what happened." Sherlock demanded sharply and John joined his side, more of a support to him than a help to the case. There was no anatomy to be observed so far and his deduction-skills would never be as good as the consulting detective's.

"You're the parent?" the principal asked and tilted his head as he stared upon the two men.

_Homophobic,_

_serious heart conditions, the detective would be able to kills him with just his words if it came to that,_

_married twenty to twenty-five years,_

_three kids. _

Sherlock shoved his jaw out and sucked his bottom lip, knew himself well enough that a single judging word from that man would be the end of his modesty.

"Yes." John said with a tense face as he eyed the man. "Tell us how this happened."

The principal fidgeted and buttoned his straining jacked over his big belly and smothered the grey hair barely hanging on to the sides of his big head and his pumpkin-shaped face shined by nervous sweating.

"Maybe we should wait for the police before any statements are made here." he growled and the corner of his mouth twitched as he found his own sentence satisfactory, like the man had just saved himself from any mishaps in this conversation.

"Fine." Sherlock fumed and took a step aside to lest Lestrade come forward. "Lestrade, be so kind."

The DI, who'd heard every word, proudly showed his badge and the principal went pale. Obviously he never thought that a disappearance of a child would make the authorities work this quickly.

"DI Lestrade." Greg said and didn't make any effort to take the mans hand. "Now, tell us exactly what happened."

The principal presented himself as Leonard Olander and Sherlock growled silently at the name, he would never let that name slip his mind when he needed someone to harass on a boring day and he folded his collar up to his ears as he listened to the simple explanation of the event. Not much information was to wrap his mind around there.

"You're telling me you have no records of this man taking care of your students?" Lestrade fumed and scribbled it down in his notebook when Sherlock made a disgusting discovery coming through the door.

"Detective!?" the woman called from the doors and her curls waved in the wind, both the detective and the doctor would always have a hard time facing her after all the name-callings she'd done though the years. Lestrade turned on his heal and unbuttoned his coat in the act. "We found deep tracks by the parking lot, seems like someone came and left in a hurry."

"Don't you as much as look at them!" Sherlock shouted and ran out through the door, leaving John alone in the presence of the DI and the principal without as much as a glance in his direction and the doctor felt like someone grabbed a hold of his insides and twisted painfully. He didn't want to be alone right now.

"John?" Lestrade called and he came back to the reality again. "You alright mate?" Of course he wasn't, he felt awful.

"This Sebastian." he stammered and saw in the corner of his eye how the DI furrowed when he heard his unsteady voice. "D'you got anything of him? Picture, home address, number? Anything that could help us?" Leonard frowned and shot him a sharp look.

"Isn't that the polices business?" he scoffed and the solider clenched his fists as the anger bubbled in his vanes and he hunched his shoulder to make himself as compact as possible, restraining himself not to hit the man.

"Answer his questions." Greg ordered and crossed his arms, obviously disliking this Leonard as much as him and just knowing that made John feel a little calmer as he took a deep breath. The principal flickered between them and wiped the sweat of his forehead.

"We've got all our employes on file, except him. We've only got a phone number but there's no answered. And we don't know much about him. Mrs Tomega left for family business over christmas and we hired this man after good recommendations. But can hardly believe any of our employes would ever be capable of commit kidnapping." John groaned irritably and rolled his eyes.

"Just give us the number!" he growled and held back the nicknames that tasted so good on his tongue and would taste even better if they'd got out. "My boy is out there and one of your subs is the blame. Stop wasting precious time and give us what we're here for, show us the rooms he've been in, where he put his stuff in the morning, what desk he sat at, everything that this man has as much as touched since he started here and don't ask why, just do."

Leonard's pumpkin face went more scarlet in anger and those eyes seemed to pop out at any second as he shot the DI, the only man with a badge, a sharp look.

"Or are you one of those employes who aren't capable to commit such tasks?" Lestrade asked him with a thin smile as he wobbled back and forth on his feet and John turned to him. He'd seen his friend angry before but this was clearly different. Sherlock and John wasn't the only ones that cared deeply about the boy, Greg was one of the closest to their son, more an uncle than a friend. Of course the man was angered by the principals incompetence, but than anger went deeper than that and there was more emotions boiling inside him. Lestrade was worried and that's when John noticed the tears threatening to fall in his steel grey eyes.

Greg was scared for Hamish's sake and John felt his heart take a leap in gratitude for the man. All that time he and their boy had spent together during babysitting and even sleepovers had connected them more than John had ever realised, and he was now very proud to call Greg his friend. And Hamish was the closest thing Greg had to a son, their relationship was more than just solid.

"THE NUMBER!" Greg shouted and Leonard jumped by the sudden aggression and the smugness he'd been showing of so proudly was quickly taken away as he wobbled into the office with a door decorated with hand prints in paper. As soon as he was out of sight John felt a sudden panic invade his vessel and he staggered over to the wall with a weak whimper to keep himself from falling.

"John?" the DI quaked and grasped his arm to keep him from falling. John bundled up his face in pain and he took a deep breath as he tried to calm himself.

"Jesus.." he groaned. "Jesus.." There where no words he could speak to sooth himself or reassure his friend that he was okay. All he was able to do was thinking about his boy, all his thought were directed to him and he would never be able to concentrate in this state. What was the reason of all this? What was the purpose for his abduction?

"Okay, John. Sit down. C'mon."

All the paintings and drawings put him in a colourful blur and he roamed the reception after anything he could rest his legs on, somewhere he could sit down and pause this madness for a minute. Greg helped him to one of the wooden chairs by the table stacked with flyers with information about the school and John took a quick decision that they would never put their foot in this place after this was over. Hamish would not go back to this school

"Okay, take a breather." Greg begged him and the doctor covered his face in his hands and followed his orders. Every breath was like a grenade exploding with shrapnel in his lung. It hurt and his heart took up so much space between them two that he couldn't expand them to their full capacity. The oxygen didn't want to enter him properly.

"Ooooh hell." he groaned and fought the tears threatening to fall. Somewhere out there, their little boy was either alive or... he couldn't even think about the second possibility. "Jesus, Greg. Just let me wake up." He fell back to the back of the chair and tugged his hair by the roots, moaned loudly as his insides twisted again.

"I would if I could mate." Greg sighed and filled a paper cup to the brim with water from the cooler. "But I'm afraid that this is the maximum level of a waken state." The cup was cold in his hand and he stared at the clear liquid, saw the rings form at its surface and his hand trembled. "We're gonna find him, John. Sherlock is not going to let those whoever did this walk away and neither will we." John tilted his head and closed his eyes hard.

"His just seven, Greg." he quaked and the back if his head slammed the wall behind him.

"Yeah, and you tell me how many other seven-year-olds could handle this situation as well as your boy?" Greg asked and John felt some of the panic ease with those words, only a small dosage of course, but enough to make the twisting of his insides calm. "He is in a hell of a situation right now, but we both know that he's doing his best to handle it. Hamish is a brave boy. A smart boy."

"I know he's brave." John mumbled and swallowed with a dry throat, he'd forgotten about the water in his hand. "But he shouldn't have to. He shouldn't.." he choked back a sob and gave a ridiculous whimper. "No one, how brave they even might be, should ever experience a thing like this." A trembling breath fell over his lips when the door flew open and Sherlock stepped inside with a face carved in stone, why hadn't he toppled yet?

Those eyes that usually mirrored the miracles of aurora borealis had lost all their colour and John nearly cried out as he saw the pain trapped in the pale shade of grey. This wasn't his Sherlock anymore and he started to get a taste of the man that would be left behind if Hamish didn't come back. John bit down on his bottom lip and locked his jaw. If they lost Hamish, John would also lose Sherlock.

* * *

It was cold and his head rolled back and forth on something hard as he tried to wake his painful vessel, but he quickly regretted it as his bruises started to burn at his arms and legs. He took a deep breath and smelt the foul air around him. Brick dust, mould, ink and before he even opened his eyes he knew he was in some factory.

Why?

Oh...

He opened his tired eyes and met the concrete roof and saw the water drip from the old copper pipes webbing above him. His vision turned into a white blur as he turned his head to the side and he saw the thin mattress on the hard floor with a blanket neatly folded by the end of it. So this was where he was going to spend his nights from now on. He turned his head to the other side and saw the big metal door with flaky green pain, that would not be easy to break out of he thought and let his head fell back.

The drugs was still in his system, pulling him down to the floor and scrambling his brain like an egg and he blinked almost painfully. There was dust and grit in his eyes, or maybe they were just dry.

He was so thirsty.

The bag! Where was his bag!?

He tried to heave himself up but was only tossed back to the floor by his own weight again and he groaned painfully as his sudden movements pained his bruises. He needed that bag. He promised he would be careful with the skull. He needed that skull.

Sebastian... Seb the sub... Oh..

He winced by the memory and felt his heart twist and turn in his chest.

People will always be weird, little Hay. Unpredictable and false, sometimes even evil.

He didn't stop the tears that started to fall. Why should he? At least one of his painful problems was solved that way he thought as the dust and grit washed away from his eyes. The sobs was uncontrollable but he tried to muffle them as much as he could, he never knew who might be listening and he would not show himself weak on the first day. If this still was his first day of course.

_Day one._

He stared into nothingness as he cried, tried to find the happy memories in his head but it only made his sobbing worse. The thought of his fathers, of Greg and mrs Hudson made the pain in his chest worse like someone stomped his heart and he laid completely flat on the floor. Shiver after shiver travelled down his spine and for each one he had to hold his breath tightly not to scream.

Cowards, he thought. Damn cowards.

The feeling started to come back to his legs and he crawled over to the mattress by the wall and curled up, made himself as small as possible and hugged his legs to his chest. All he wanted was to go home. Kidnapping wasn't interesting from this point of view.

He stared into the red brick wall, head to tired to make deduction where he could be. Was he still in England? What were their plan to do with him? He wiped his tears with the sleeve of his jacket and sniffled. Would this be the end of his short life? What would his dad do?

The question kept bombarding his already throbbing head and it was soon more tears caused by pain than hurt. What had they given him? As he rolled up his sleeve he saw the big bruises shaped like Sebastian's big hands and just seeing those familiar prints hurt more than the actual bruise itself. He had trusted that man. Let him in on his life and for the first time he thought he'd found a friend worth keeping.

How ignorant he was. Why would ever a twenty-year-old put and interest in him? Stupid, stupid..

Nails were broken on his fingers, dirty and sharp. Threads and fabric from Sebastian's jacket was still stuck to them and he clenched his hands into hard fists and bundled up his face in pain again.

He punched the wall.

Skin broke over his knuckles and he was almost thankful when the this sort of pain nearly drowned the sensation caused by the hurt he'd been caused emotionally. Curse this. Curse them all.

He wasn't worthy to call himself the son of the consulting detective and the doctor when he couldn't even keep himself from being kidnapped after all they'd taught him. Shameful, embarrassing was the words for him. He was a disgrace to be one of the Holmes.

His head sunk into the mattress and the tears stained the already filthy fabric. Brain was still playing tricks on him and the exhaustion caused by the drug in his system made it impossible to keep himself awake. All he could think of was sleep, how scared he even was he would never be able to argue with the needs of rest and he relaxed, felt his shoulder his the floor through the thin mattress. This would be uncomfortable, he thought, and drifted away a second time. Leaving this horrible place he ran off to his mind palace for a moment, let the dreams drown him in the bliss of oblivion without knowing what was going on around him and all the worry left him for the moment.

He slept. At least for now.

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**Thank you so much for all the reviews! They mean so much to me and I would be so happy if you kept them coming! **

**And hang in there, next chapter will soon be up, and I am thinking about naming the chapter, just to make it easier to find amongst them if there's something you want to go back to. We'll see. It might happen.**


	11. Ooo' Hay

**This is an angsty chapter indeed. Read at your own risk and try not to hate me!**

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Far away humming pulled him out of the welcomed darkness and bliss and the white light from the lamps flicking in the roof amongst the many pipes penetrated his closed eyes. The humming turned into a soft melody that in any other situation would have a very soothing effect, but right now it was only threatening. He fluttered his eyes open and met the red brick wall, listening to the song that slowly straightened his thoughts into the memory where he was and what had happened. He closed his eyes again.

A loud clonk and a creak echoed between the walls as the door slid open and he held his breath, trembled by the thought that at one point he had to turn around and look at the human that had put him here.

"Oo' Hay." The voice was soft, wounded in cotton but cold as ice and Hamish shivered when it reached his ears. It was the same voice that had hummed from the other side of the door and the melody suddenly triggered something in his mind.

That song. He had heard it before

"Ooo' Hay." he kept singing and stepped across the room. "No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfy me but your soul." The soles of those shoes dragged against the floor and Hamish tensed up when he heard how close he'd gotten. "Well I am death none can excel, I'll open the door to heaven or hell. Ooo' Hay." The fabric of what the man was wearing strained as he crouched beside the mattress and Hamish bundled up his face and did his best to keep himself away from reality. "Ooo' Hay." The singing came to an end and the man behind his back took a deep breath. "It's a pleasure to meet you little Holmes." Even if it wasn't a melody it still sounded like singing. That voice was merry but evil, there was no good to be found in it and Hamish quaked by the thought of the man's looks, he didn't want a face to haunt his dreams.

"You better turn to face me little one, or this little game of ours wont be played fair." Hamish swallowed with his dry mouth, worked his still numb tongue and choose carefully what words to use.  
"I never liked playing games." he croaked and clenched his fists over his chest, felt the scabs over his knuckles crack and it burned all the way out to his fingertips.

"Oh this isn't just any game, little Hay." the man chimed. "This isn't supposed to be a fun one. But I'm telling you, if you don't play, you'll lose. And you don't want to lose this game. So, you better turn to face me, little Hay."

The boy took his time, held his breath and cleared his mind to make himself prepared for whatever he was going to meet and what face would be hunting his head for months to come, if he ever lived that long. It took much energy to open his eyes and he stared into the brick wall, saw the shadow hunting the red paint and the outline of the squatting man behind him started to get a shape. Tall, thin but muscular, already threatening. His neck throbbed as he turned his head and he laid his eyes upon the man. A shiver ran down his spine as those dark brown eyes stared at him, those thin lips curled into a hostile smile and the back-combed dark hair smelled of pine tree and his face of aftershave.

"Look at you." he smirked and tilted his head to the side as he inspected him. "You look so much like your father. The same razor blade-cheekbones."

He blinked, the black suit the man wore was clean, not a single hair or stain on the white shirt. He looked like a collectable toy from a Bond-movie, a classic villain and Hamish was almost disappointed by his evil radiation. He'd expected some freakish normality. A villain shouldn't look like a villain, it was to obvious, where was the mystery in that?

"I will cut you with those if you come to close." Hamish warned him and the man's eyes widened in surprise by his words.

"Oh look at that." he smirked excitedly. "There's some sass in you. There's something I never expected." He smiled and showed his glistening teeth, just as sharp as his stare. "This will be more fun than I imagined." The man raised and put his hands down his pockets, pulled his shoulders to his ears as he stood hunched over him, eyes shadowed making his icy stare more intimidating and Hamish felt his insides twist and turn as he laid curled up on the floor, arms around his legs and chest and an incredible thirst burning his throat.

"You better get used to where you are, Hay." the man chimed. "You'll be here for some time."

"What is it that you want?" Hamish asked hoarsely and was ashamed of how weak he sounded, drugs was still in his system and he was still exhausted.

"Why don't you sit up?" the man asked. It wasn't as much a question as and order, one that Hamish didn't plan to follow. Nothing this man had to say would be something he would listen to. He stared blankly at the man, sight going blurry and limbs going slack.

"SIT UP!" the man growled and his face... his face twisted into something evil and Hamish changed his mind quickly about villains. This man was something more than that, something dark, someone with power. Hamish started to understand that this man would always get what he wanted one way or another with either threats or smiles, he would be crazy not disobeying his words if he didn't want this to be the end.

He heaved himself up, felt his body burn and his head go heavy by the effort and he leaned back against the hard wall.

"There we go, much easier to just do as the grown up says, isn't it? No needs for violence that way." the man giggled and his voice was muffled by a loud ringing in the boy's ears, distorted into a rough tone and he blinked painfully as the blood started to leave his head. "Oh don't faint! We have much to talk about you and me!"

That's when he saw the skull. It stood beside the mattress, the hollows of its eyes staring at him and just the sight of it brought some happiness to the boy.

Please let it stay, he begged silently. Please just let me have something to keep me company. Just something so small would mean the world to him. Then he felt his stomach twist and in made a threatening growl as the blood left his head and he closed his eyes as his head hit the wall.

"Oh, don't be such a disappointment." the man groaned and tossed his head back. "What's the fun if you're planning to spent our time unconscious?"

"Then how do you intend we spend them?" Hamish asked and opened his eyes again, the room spun around them. Whatever was in that syringe, he was sure he was allergic to it. "What business of yours am I?"

"You use so big words for a small boy, Hay." the man beamed and swayed back and forth where he stood. "Your vocabulary is certainly more complexed than other seven-year-olds. But with a father like Sherlock Holmes I guess you wouldn't be accepted as a son if you sounded like an idiot."

The nausea became more and more intrusive and he swallowed continuously to calm his stomach. If he was unable to stop it, he would aim for the man's shoes, a good plan.

"When do we start to play?" he asked, just wanted to have this conversation over with. He wanted him to leave. The man scoffed and looked down at his shiny black shoes, raised his eyebrows to the hairline and gave him a crocked smile.

"We began a week ago." he answered. "D'you remember your friend? Seb the sub?" Hamish closed his eyes hard, tried not to remember. "Of course you do. You liked him, didn't you? I made him." He grinned at his own words and bounced in the heals of his feet. "Well, I didn't make him. But I made his character. He appealed to you, didn't he? The resemblance he had to your father, Johnny-boy I mean."

A whimper fled his lips and he suddenly felt more stupid than ever. Of course. His father, the broken solider that the lonely detective befriended. The boy, the lonely child saved by the broken teacher. It was all an act. Bits and pieces puzzled together into a perfect recreation of his fathers meeting. Why hadn't he noticed? How could he be so easily fooled. The world had been all made up like a scenery and he was the main character without even knowing it. He was Truman from the Truman show. What a joke he was.

"I knew what you craved and I gave it to you." the man said like he'd read his thoughts. "The friend you always wanted. The sad but intelligent young man with and abusive family, something for you to dig your teeth into. Do you wanna know who he really is?" He really didn't. He lowered his head to his knees and felt the tears again, burning in the back of his eyes as they promised to soon start falling. "Maybe I'll tell you someday. Even introduce you properly. Sebastian the mercenary. He's a good boy. Follows orders the same second they're given."

Hamish had never felt so small, so humiliated and embarrassed as the world started to clear around him. It was nothing more than a fairytale with a perfect twist. He just hoped this one had a good ending. Hopefully this was a comedy, and not a tragedy.

"Did you like the part when he searched for his pills?" he asked smirking and took a step closer to the filthy mattress, forcing Hamish to crawl closer to the rough wall. "Always searching for distractions and relief. Just like your father and all his cases. Those cases will always be more important that you, little Hay. Am I right? Just like money was for Sebastian."

Don't let him into your head, Hamish demanded himself and felt his shoulder blades flat against the bricks. Whatever you do, don't let him play his mind tricks on you.

"Both of them will leave you for what the brain truly craves."

"Shut up." he hissed and felt his blood freeze as those words left him. He never planned to argue with the man.

"Oh, banged a toe, did we?" the man sang and took another step to the bed. "Am I trespassing a sensitive area in that little head of yours?"

"What d'you want?" Hamish asked with a dark growl and pierced his eyes deep into the dark eyes above him, stared with as much hatred as his little body could contain, but the man didn't as much as flinch. The smile already splitting his face in half grew wider and his eyes turn into thin slits as he observed him hungrily.

"No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul." he sang with his quirky accent and Hamish already freezing blood turned colder. "Your fathers are probably going to put a death sentence on me for this. They'll assure my death as certain as the inventible apocalypse which will lead us all to our death anyway so..." He bent over him, his face hovering in the boy's eye level and he could see his own reflection on those dark irises that could burn through his soul that this man so hungrily wanted to posses. "Why don't we have some fun until then?"

He flinched as the man pulled his hand out of his pocket, ready for a slap or anything else that could hurt him but it never came. Instead he pulled something up from the chest pocket inside his jacket and Hamish went pale when he saw it.

His book. His leather notebook with the string tightly tied around its cover. It was waved before him and Hamish nearly reached out to pull it out of his hands, but he knew his secrets had already been read. There was no use in trying to save them now.

"My first plan was to just keep you as a catch on your father, making him dance after my commands, but you, dear Hay, made this game a little more interesting." he smiled and placed the book on top of Hamish's knee, left his there barely balanced. "You have a superpower, don't you?"

He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn't find the words. There was nothing he could say to save himself from what he'd just so stupidly revealed in that book. He should have left it at home were it was safe. If it still was safe that is.

"Hamish, the invisible boy." the man chuckled. "I've got use for you, little Hay. You just made this so much more interesting than I could have ever imagined."

What? The boy felt lost, what use could this man have with his ability? It wasn't like he could just teach him what he knew about the uncovered streets of London when he doesn't even know how he knows. But he didn't have time to ask before the man stood up, kicked the skull closer to the mattress before turning on his heal to walk over to the heavy door. That's when he decided to ask the question that had bothered him since the moment he woke up.

"Who are you?" he asked with his raspy throat and the men stopped in his steps, stared at the door before him.

"Jim Moriarty." he answered and opened the door with a loud clonk and a creak. "Bye."

* * *

Samples and pictures was all that they could find around the crime scene. Sherlock had found hairs on the armchair and footprints by the desk. The tracks in the snow had given him enough dirt to make an analysis to see where it came from. When they reached the lab some of this crime would be resolved, but for now they were silently sitting in the cab, John staring at his shaking hands and Sherlock searching his phone for god knows what. He hadn't said a word since he started working, unusual even for him. He always threw deductions and nonsense only he understood out in the air when he worked, but this time he'd carried that face carved in stone without emotions and John had never been so worried about him.

"Sherlock.." he croaked, desperate to hear his dark voice that always had a soothing effect on him. He felt so empty inside, like he'd left his soul the flat and the only thing that could fill it would be Sherlock's voice. To hear him talk and deduce was always calming and right now, he needed it more than ever. Maybe Sherlock already knew something about their boy that he didn't tell John. What was really going on in that big head of his? Why didn't he share his thoughts? "Sherlock, please."

"What John?" he asked and lowered his phone as the cab slowed at the crossroad. John closed his eyes hard.

"I need you to talk to me. Please, don't leave me out of this." Sherlock turned, furrowed his brow and stared coldly at him.

"I'm not..."

"You are." John interrupted. "You haven't said a word since we got the phone call and I..." He paused to clear his throat. "I need to know what you think have happened." His throated throbbed as he swallowed and he reached out for his hand, grasped his hard and stroke his long fingers. "We don't even know if it's Moriarty." But who else would it be? It was nothing more than wishful thinking that it weren't. Their boy was right now with the worst criminal they'd ever encountered and John didn't even want to think about them in the same room. "I need you to talk, Sherlock. Take me through your thoughts about this. Hamish isn't the only one who needs you right now."

Sherlock just stared blankly at him, blinking confusedly and opened his mouth to speak, but no words left him. His mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish for several seconds when the cab suddenly stopped and he fidgeted in his seat.

A small amount of money was thrown to the drivers seat and he heaved himself out, pulling his hand free from John's grip and the doctor stared at the door that was loudly closed behind the detective, making the rosary hanging over the mirror rattle.

The words Sherlock had spoken a few days ago appeared in his mind and John felt his heart clench by the memory of that night.

I don't like being afraid, John.

He stepped out of the cab and felt his stomach twist and turn when he realised which street his shoes touched. Legs went soft under him and he braised himself against the streetlight that stood a few inches beside him. This street would always have a violent impact upon him. He stared at the stone curb covered by white snow and ice, but that was not what he saw. Just a few steps before him is where Sherlock had once laid, flat against the ground with his crimson blood flooding down the drains with the rainwater. His heart pounded violently inside him and he grasped his shirt with his trembling hand.

"Sherlock?" he called out but it was nothing more than a pathetic whimper that left him. Everything overwhelmed him in the matter of second. The feeling of loss would always be an invasive feeling inside him that he would never be able to control. Even if they'd been at Bart's many times they'd never walked upon this particular street, Sherlock had always been kind and beg the driver to stop at the backside. But this day that hadn't occurred to him. So here John stood, breathing heavily with his heart in his throat and eyes and ears burning, shaking and faint by it all.

"John?" He was pulled out of his pondering as a hand grasped him by the wrist and he lifted his heavy head, focused on the man before him and was calmed by the dark curls and sharp eyes. There he was, the man that once left him in the most despicable way that he never thought he would be able to forgive, but then came back and healed him a second time. Sherlock would always be the sign of relief after that. The man who could save him. But this time it was different.

"What are we gonna do, Sherlock?" he whimpered and and felt the tears fall down his cheeks and drip of his chin. "Our little boy, our Hamish is out there in the hands of that spider. How are we gonna get him back?"

"John."

"What if we'll never see him again? What do we do, Sherlock? How do we continue our lives without him?"

"John." Sherlock murmured and cupped his face, stared into his teared eyes and held them there in silence for several second. Suddenly John could feel his breathing calm. The panic soothed by those grey eyes that refused to blink and the iron claw around his heart released its heard grip. "We're getting him back. We'll do everything we can to have him in our arms again. Anything it takes."

John bit down on his bottom lip to choke the sob in his throat when Sherlock pulled him into his arms, cradled his head to his boney shoulder and held him tight.

"What if he doesn't get back?" he quaked and cried into the crock of the detectives neck, didn't bother to care about the passing people that could see him this state.

"That's a barrier we have to get passed if it comes to that." Sherlock mumbled and huffed a warm breath into his ear. "Let's just hope we never need to."

The sobbing was impossible to control by now and he pinned himself to the big coat, refused to let go.

"Please John, pull yourself together. I'm useless when it comes to comforting." And John actually managed to laugh at that, even if it was a weak and terrible laugh he was still amused by Sherlock's true words. He was useless, almost always worsening the problem. "And tears do us no good right now. We have our son to save."

* * *

**Thank you for earlier reviews, they'll always make me happy even if the chapters are sad. Please, keep 'em coming! **


	12. His only playmate

**Okay, angst! Angst! I'm telling you, ANGST! **

* * *

A son to save indeed.

John watched the black shadow sway before him as they ran down the many stairs to the lab, he couldn't really concentrate on the surroundings at the moment and when Sherlock opened the door to the sterile room the smell of alcohol and chemicals burned his sinuses. A woman in her white coat and hair in a loose know jumped as the doors slammed open and turned to them with the heart in her throat.

"Oh, jesus!" she gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. "You frightened me." Sherlock didn't greet her, just hurried over to the counter and unloaded his pockets of containers and plastic bags. The microscope made a shrieking sound as he pulled it over the metal table and Molly pulled a face and turned to John who still clenched his jaw and fists to contain his mental break down, he didn't want to bother Sherlock with that right now. "John?" He looked up from his shoes and into her blue eyes that mirrored his worry. "Are you alright."

He felt like a stranded fish as he opened and closed his mouth several times as he tried to answer her question but he couldn't find the right words. Molly was also one of their friends who cared deeply for Hamish. She was one of the few who actually put an interest in his joy for blood and guts and she'd often brought him down to the morgue to let him play mortician, one of his favourite games. These news wouldn't be easy on her either.

"Hamish's abducted." Sherlock answered for him and Molly's face went blank when he heard him, shifted her gaze between the two and her jaw suddenly went slack.

"W-what? When?" she stuttered and put most of her concentration on John, the man with more obvious emotions and also the man who would give her a simpler explanation.

"This morning." John groaned and covered his eyes with a sweaty hand, but he didn't cry this time. He was emotionally exhausted, unable to have to strong outbursts. Also he was hungry, thirsty, in need for tea, but none of those cravings could be settled, the nausea came back by just the thought. "A substitute at the school took him, we don't know why."

"Not yet." Sherlock murmured and started to liquify the dirt from the footprints. Molly was still confused, blinked continuously as she tired to wrap her mind around the information.

"B-but is he okay? Haven't you heard anything?" All John could do was shake his head, take a deep breath and sniffle as he laid eyes upon her again.

"We didn't even see it coming." he groaned and roamed the room.

Every corner, chair, cabinet brought back memories about everything Hamish had done and accomplished in here, he'd done thing in here no other child would be able to do in his age. He bit back a smile as he saw the shelf with beakers, when Hamish was three he had accidentally caught it with his sticky fingers and pulled it down. All Sherlock's experiments was contaminated with pieces of glass as the beakers crushed into a million little pieces and that was also the first time Hamish had made Sherlock angry. The detective had a row with himself as he tried to clean his samples but he never raised his voice at their son. Never. When Hamish did something wrong or unacceptable Sherlock would always give him the silent treatment, making the boy uncomfortable until he realised his own mistake and apologised.

On the other side of the room was the chair with a browning stain on the soft seat. Hamish was five when he cut his hand on the scalpel while splitting a piece of a human spleen. It took months before John could forgive Sherlock for putting something so sharp in the hands of a five-year-old. Three stitches was sawn into the backside of the boy's hand and Sherlock held him during the procedure, apologised to him constantly and wiped his welling tears.

John bit down on his bottom lip until he tasted blood and every memorable moment travelled through his head. He couldn't be here, he couldn't go home, he couldn't go anywhere without being reminded of his kidnapped son. But he couldn't leave.

They had a son to save.

"Oh my god." Molly whimpered and John had almost forgotten she was here. "John, how are you holding up?" The doctor let a trembling breath fall over his lips before he chuckled weakly.

"I'm not." he answered and shook his head. "I am sorry, Sherlock." He whimpered and gave his husband a long stare. "But I'm not." Tears started to fall down his face and the detective looked up from his samples, observed him for a long moment before sighing loudly.

"I think this is the moment where you leave for a while." he said and turned to Molly. "Come back in half an hour. We might need you then." The mortician closed her open mouth and stared between the two, out of words and condolences. She grabbed her books in a hurry and sneaked out of the room quietly. The doors slammed shut and Sherlock put the pipet and beaker to rest on the counter.

"John.." he started.

"Why haven't you toppled yet?" John interrupted and curled his hands up to hard fists. "I know that tears do us no good, but a healthy person would be head over heals in our situation, Sherlock! How come you aren't?" He started to realise the anger in his voice but decided that Sherlock needed to hear it, how else would he ever understand exactly what was going through John's head. An angry John would always make Sherlock listen.

The detective blinked and took a deep breath and unbuttoned his coat, hung it over his chair and straightened his clothes neatly over his lanky frame.

"I don't have time for such emotions as worry and fear right now, John. They do me no good when I try to concentrate."

"It's our boy we're talking about!" John shouted. "You're not a god damn Vulcan!" Sherlock twitched by the use of words and tilted his head and John realised he didn't understand the insult. "Forget it, just..." He took a deep breath and wiped his tears with the back of his hand. "You always say you care but... right now I wonder if you really do." Sherlock's eyes slimmed. "What are you doing right now? Looking for our boy or having fun? Because this is not fun, Sherlock! This is not something for your amusement! This is not..." He silenced himself and locked his jaw, closed his eyes hard and took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself.

"I am not uncaring." Sherlock spelled out with a dark voice and then John saw his hurt face. "I haven't toppled yet because that is exactly what Moriarty wants us to do." His dark voice grew louder for each word and John felt smaller and smaller where he stood, right now more scared for Sherlock than anything else. "I do not play by his rules and I am not going to let myself get scared, do you understand!?" He slammed his fist to the counted and beakers and pipets rattled by the force. John twitched and held his breath. "I am not letting that spider ruin my family once more! And I wont let him break us apart so he can play his little games on us! And I am not letting myself get scared because..." That's when his voice broke and he braised himself to the counter so he wouldn't fall. "I can't work when I'm scared and every little mistake I do might cause Hamish's death.." He fell down on the chair and John noticed his heaving chest. "I once had to make a choice of being the cause of your pain or death and I had to choose pain. Something simple for a grown up man. But Hamish is seven." Tears started to fall over his sharp cheekbones and he stared into nothingness, and John saw a man before him he'd never seen. Sherlock had never looked so small and sad. "I don't wish either on him and that scares me John. Because I do not want to end up on that crossroad once more!" He bowed his head, hunched his shoulder and held his breath.

John felt like a complete ass. That was ann understatement, at least. He was evil, cruel and wicked and he felt an iron claw grasp his heart as he heard the first sob leave his husband. The detective trembled before him, pulled his hair by the roots and swayed back and forth where he sat.

"I am sorry, Sherlock." he whimpered and hurried over to embrace him. "I am a complete twat." He gathered him in his arms and Sherlock uttered a weak sob into his shoulder. "I'm sorry." The detective pinned himself to John's shirt and nuzzled himself to his chest, showing a side of himself that John didn't think existed. There where times that Sherlock reminded him of a child, an annoying, spoiled child that would always get on peoples nerved. But this was different, Sherlock was small in his arms, helpless and destroyed and John didn't know how to handle him.

"I just want our boy back, John." he whimpered. "And all I can do to make that happen is work. Please understand that I don't do it out of interest, but out of fright. I need to do everything I can to get him back."

John buried his nose in those dark curls and took a deep breath of the smell that would always remind him of home and closed his eyes. He cried silently and caressed his husband's sharp features of his face, loved everything of him so dearly and regretted every word he'd said.

"I'm sorry, love." he whispered and sniffled. "I am so sorry. I just don't know what to do with myself. I just want to turn the whole London upside down until I find him. I just feel so useless right now. I wish there was something I could do." The detective cleared his throat and sniffled.

"You're not useless." he croaked and swallowed his tears. "Just an idiot." And John giggled and kissed his curls.

"I know, you always remind me. But I'm not the only one." Sherlock smirked and pulled John a little closer, he ended up in his lap and the doctor wound his arms around his neck, kissed his cheek and took a deep breath. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against his.

"Please John. I need to work. It's the only thing that will keep my mind off all this mess." The doctor swirled one of his curls and sighed.

"Of course." he said and kissed his lips, cupped his face and felt the safety this man gave him and the iron claw released his heart. "I'll make some notes of your gibberish."

* * *

The black hollows of the skull stared at him as he held it in his hands. His hear was finally clear but thirst an hunger was now his main bother and he didn't know what to do to calm it. The only water he could find was the liquid falling from the pipes, he caught one of them on his tongue but regretted it quickly. The taste was stale, foul and he had to clean his mouth on his sleeve to get rid of it.

It wasn't a big room his was in, four steppes from wall to door and six steppes from wall to wall. It had no windows and reminded him of an isolation cell, in a couple of days he would go crazy if he didn't change environment or saw the sunlight. It was impossible to tell if it was day or night, he had no idea of the time, date or location but minding the hunger he would guess less than a day.

Survival knowledge. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. So, three weeks was his maximum and three days his minimum. It this man Moriarty could be so cruel.

He turned his gaze to the skull again, touched the prominent cheekbones and sighed loudly. He wasn't as scared as he was hungry right now and he searched his pockets in hope he'd forgotten something to munch on. A treacherous path, there was nothing to be found except dust and threads. And even more disappointing, he had to go to the bathroom. Very soon too. He heaved himself up from the floor, tucked the skull under his arm and made his way over to the door, stared at the flaky green pain and laid his hand upon the handle. It wouldn't budge, not a surprise. It made a loud clonk as he banged his fists against it. He had decided that he would not be one of those hostages that had to use the corner.

"Oi! Mr Villain!" he shouted, head perfectly clear to feel brave enough to humiliate his enemy. Soon he heard the lazy footsteps on the other side and he back of to the mattress again. Even if he would be able to sneak passed the man when he opened the door, it would probably also be the last thing he did. I didn't want to risk it. A bad plan when he didn't know the building. With a loud clonk and a creak the door opened and the man appeared again with an annoyed expression on his face.

"Oh, what do you want?" he complained and rolled his eyes. Hamish had to say that this man's personality was hard to get a grip around, always shifting between childish and evil and he didn't know which side scared him more.

"I need to pee." he said. "And I wont do it in the corner as long as I have my dignity." Moriarty rolled his eyes and groaned. "And I'm thirsty and hungry. I hope you've been planning to feed me during this process or your game won't last for long." Jim pushed the door open and sighed.

"Well come on." he groaned and waved his arm to the corridor. But Hamish's didn't move. Was he just gonna let him go out there? What was his plan now? See if he would try to run or follow him? This was just odd for a kidnapper.

"Well, today!?" Jim snapped and made a face just as odd as his personality and Hamish swallowed with a dry throat. He placed the skull on the folded blanket that was stained by the falling drops and took a step closer to the man. "Hurry up!" As soon as his feet reached the threshold he hissed in pain as Jim grabbed his hair and pulled it by the roots. "No funny ideas, little Hay. I will pull the hair off your skull if you try to run."

This was the first time Hamish got a look over the place outside the room. A long corridor once painted in white, lights flickering in the roof and pipes travelling the right wall. At the end there was a big sign but to far away for him to read but it looked like a warning for something. He smelled the air. It reminded him of a crypt, like bodies had laid here in waiting to be turned to dust, but there was more, mould of some sort. This building was old, very old, but it couldn't be anywhere near the industrial parts of London because there was no signs of pollution in the air. And it was cold, very, very cold. He felt his skin prickle and he started to tremble as Jim pulled him down the corridor. He tried hard not to miss a single clue as he passed the stains and spots on the walls and floor. There had to be something to reveal this place.

Jim stopped by a door and pulled it open, tossed the boy in and his staggered into the foul smelling room.

"Two minutes!" Jim told him and turned on the lights.

* * *

He was back in the room again. A tray was placed before him by a man he'd never seen before, probably another mercenary and Hamish hated him by the first sight. But to his liking there was actual food in the tray. Not a feast or even a proper meal, but enough to feed him. A glass of fresh water and a heated can of beans. He liked beans, but even if he was hungry and had asked for food, it felt like an abomination to just eat it. To empty this can of beans would be some sort of acceptance to his situation. Every spoon he put in his mouth would be like eating the last ounce he had of self respect. But he was hungry, his stomach growled by the salty smell of tomato sauce What would his father's do. Sherlock didn't really count in this situation, that man never ate. But John, what would John do?

He turned to his skull and picked it up, cupped it in his hands and stared into the dark hollows.

"Should I?" he asked it and heard his stomach growl again. "What would daddy do?" He never expected and answer from his friend but just the feeling of speaking to someone made it easier to make decision in his mind. "Wouldn't it just please them?" He took a deep breath thought his nose and smelled the air again. His fathers would never forgive him if he starved himself to death, he thought and pursed his lips. And he was already thin, three weeks was a clear exaggeration.

And he was so hungry.

That did it, he grabbed the spoon laying in the tray and inspected it before cleaning it on his shirt. He lifted the can and smelled it, it didn't smell poisoned. He licked the sauce, didn't taste like it either. The first bite was all it took to make him crave more, he swallowed spoon after spoon felt one of his problems disappear. For now at least. He took a mouthful of water and was glad it didn't taste as foul as the water from the pipes. This was real water.

He licked the can clean, wondered how long he had to wait for the next serving of water and if he should save the other half for later. Kidnapping was a business with lack of routines, he never knew when he would be able to use the bathroom the next time, if he would be able to wash up a single time during his 'visit' here, if food would be a daily thing. He couldn't take things for granted here and he decided that every time he was given something he would be thankful. Not to the men doing this to him, but for the small things themselves. Seemed like a good plan to start with. Probably something his daddy would do.

He swallowed the last spoon of beans and licked the spoon clean, stared at the skull and gave it a weak smile.

"I know we're in the middle of a game but.." he started and placed the spoon on the tray again, picked up the skull and held it in his hands before his eyes. "Let's play one of our own." He smirked and thought of something to play. "Okay, I'll start. I'll think of a person, famous or infamous and you'll have to guess who, only using questions that can be answered with yes or no." He thought of a person and bit down on his bottom lip before he suddenly lit up. "Okay, I've got one."

* * *

**Thank you for earlier reviews. I know I've stepped on some hearts and caused some feels but bare with me when I say... it will get worse. **

**Please, tell me what you think of this chapter of the story so far. **


	13. Don't touch the skull

**Warning: Violence, angst. **

**Gah, I hate myself for writing such horrible things about little Hamish. I feel so evil!**

* * *

He was minding his own business when it happened. He and the Skull had been playing their games for, god knows how long, and had nearly forgotten the tragic situation they were in. No one had bothered them since they'd brought food and so far he hadn't bothered them either, even if he had to use the bathroom again.

The Skull would never be as good as Hamish at these games, never. The Skull was intelligent, but Hamish was always smarter. He laughed as the Skull made a ridiculous comment on the villain when it happened. With a pang loud as a gunshot the, the lights went out and the room turned just as dark as the hollows of the Skull's eyes. Complete blackness surrounded them and Hamish whimpered in fear as he stared into the nothingness. The dark would never be something he would enjoy, even his room had a backup with a small nightlight and the flat was always in a soft gloom. In later days he'd come to the understanding that it was for John's sake. Lights would always keep him away from the dark nights in the desert he'd once spent his life in.

But now Hamish was for the first time in complete utter blackness. He could hear his blood flood through his veins and his heart drum quicker to his ribs. His chest heaved by the deep and struggled breaths and he cradled the Skull close and shut his eyes. This was scary. Very scary indeed. Even the dark in the alleys couldn't compare to this because there would always be a small source of light somewhere. Light was good. Very good.

He heard himself whimper and he didn't even notice the tears falling at first, but when he did he couldn't stop them. Nails dug into the side of the Skull and his mind blurred into a massive goo of fright and loneliness. All he craved right now was someone to hold him, feel his fathers arms around his body and smell the oils of those curls, the pine and blossoms from their aftershaves, and his stomach turned. He'd never missed them as much as he did now. His fathers, the only two people who could get him out of this. The only arms that could comfort him in times like this.

A small sob slipped over his lips and he pressed his forehead to the cold skull. If he dared he would shout, beg them to turn on the lights but that would show them a weakness. Maybe that knowledge would end up putting him in this hell all the time during his stay. His vessel started to tremble uncontrollably and he curled himself up on the mattress that had gone moist from the dripping pipes. This night would be hellish, cold and wet and with that he also missed the warmth of his fathers. He didn't want to be curled up here. He wanted to be curled up in their bed, them on each side and their hands petting him until he fell asleep like they did after nightmares just like this one.

With another deep breath he realised that the only person who could actually help him right now was himself. No one would come for him, no one would open that door and try to comfort him. Not today. He only had himself, and the Skull.

Right, the Skull.

"I'm thinking of a person." he quaked and hiccuped quietly.

Any other person entering this conversation would believe he was crazy. A boy speaking to the remains of someone who died ages ago didn't really go hand in hand with the idiots walking the surface of the earth.

"Yes, it's a man." he whimpered and felt his breathing calm.

After all a normal human being wouldn't understand the connection a lonely boy could have with a dead man, or an un-living object of any kind. But Hamish didn't need anyone to tell him he was weird, he already knew that.

"No, he is not famous." he whimpered and swallowed his saliva thick a syrup.

Hamish was raised with a weird family, lived a weird life, had a weird mind. But he wouldn't change it for any other life in the world. To see his 'friends' entering the school every day with stories about their weekends, travelling countries and amusement parks, would always sound dull in his ears. He would never understand the joy of travelling roller coasters when this town already had the biggest attraction he could ride.

"No, he does not have blond hair."

His life was filled with something many children couldn't even dream of experiencing. The son of two loving fathers. The ability to make one phone call and get the whole yard to move their butts out of their seats to follow his commands and deductions. He could spy on the entire London if he so wished and mess with the queens puppies without getting into trouble.

"No, he does not have red hair."

So far, the seven years he'd spent walking upon this earth had been filled with adventures and gore and he wished each second for more. The belief that nothing could get to him had always been strong.

But yet, here he was. Trapped in darkness and a room small enough for a mouse to feel claustrophobic and he couldn't do a thing about it. He wasn't the Holmes he thought. He wasn't brave, how could he ever have imagined such a thing when just the darkness made his insides twist and tears fall? He was afraid, nothing his detective of a father would accept when he, on the other hand, would always be able to look past. Oh how Hamish wished he could do the same.

"Yes, he does got grey hair."

Then there was footsteps, slow dragging footsteps clamping somewhere far down that corridor that made their way closer and closer and Hamish was painfully and inhumanly curled up on the mattress, feeling his chest heave in desperation for air.

"No, he's not an idiot."

The humming began, the same dark song passed through the thick moist air into his ears and he felt a shiver travel down his spine. He wanted to go home, he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to hear the echoes of voices in this place anymore. He wanted sunlight, feel the snow fall upon his face as he tried to catch the flakes upon his tongue, he wanted to be with his fathers planning christmas eve. Decide what to make for desert and what to hang in the tree. What star to put at the top and what sweets that needed to be made. And the fear to miss christmas hit him harder than he thought. He whimpered and clench his jaw hard not to sob.

"No." he cried into the dead face of the Skull. "He's not very young."

And then the words of the song started again. Those cold words that he still recognised but couldn't place.

"Oo' Hay..."

"Yes." he whimpered and held the Skull close to his burning chest, felt the dull features dig into his skin. "It's Greg."

"Oo', what is this that I can't see with ice cold hands grabbing hold of me. Oo' Hay."

With a loud clonk and a creak, the door opened and a bright stream of light hit his eyes, blinding him for the man he didn't want to see and he knew the tears most be glistening on his face.

"Oh dear." the man grinned and took a step into the room. "You won't start begging, will you? I hate the begging part."

Hamish was not going to give him the satisfaction of proving himself weak like that. He drew a deep breath, felt his lungs being filled to the brim with the foul air of mould and ink. He swallowed the last of his tears and stared down at the Skull, noticing the one of his teeth had fallen out of the huge amount of pressure he'd caused it.

"I'm sorry." he whispered and poked the slot between the remaining teeth.  
"What was that?" Moriarty asked and the boy lifted his gaze from his friend and placed it darkly upon the villain. New suit this time, grey with a shirt white as his smile and still not a sign that could give Hamish a clue of anything. "Oh, you're taking to your skull? I see." He took a step forward and the boy new what was coming. His little arm protected the Skull with every muscle, clutching it hard to himself. "Isn't that... disturbing? D'you always do that?" He tilted his head to the side and flickered his dark gaze between the boy and the skull. "Oooh..." he suddenly hummed like he'd just made a terrifying discovery and he took another step closer, the tip of his shoes barely touching the mattress. "I see... His your friends." The boy, who was already compactly curled into the wall, held back a small whine of panic and held the skull even tighter. "Well isn't that pathetic?" A small laugh echoed between the thick walls and he crouched before him, reached out a hand and Hamish whimpered in horror as Jim cupped it upon the skull's head.

"Please." he cried and saw two of the long fingers snake into the black hollows. "Don't."

With one pull Hamish saw his only friend leave his embrace and land in the villain's hands and it felt like the boy's heart left with it.

"Enough with the begging!" Jim whined and took a good look at the skull, observed it half lidded and concentrated every sense upon it. "I've seen this." he said. "This was on the mantlepiece when I visited your father all those years ago. Don't tell me he've got you fooled into this friendly encounter-thing with this... junk?" Hamish clench his jaw and kept himself from tossing himself after the Skull trapped in Jim's hands. The last thing he wanted was being left alone in this place without it.

"Please." he cried and let the tears well freely across his cheeks. "Give him back." He clenched his hand into fists into the fabric of his trousers, trying not to punch the man in front of him, he didn't want this thing to turn more violent that in already was.

Moriarty pursed his lips, spun the skull in his hands and looked like he was thinking deeply about his options about this skull.

"Nah..." he said and Hamish's blood froze. "I think I'll keep it. For now."

The tears stopped, the sorrow and loneliness that had been haunting him for the last hours turned into pure hatred against the man and he felt his chest start to heave by the deep breaths entering his lungs. Jim gave the skull a second spin and scoffed. "At least until we can start playing for real." He stood up and Hamish followed him with his sharp stare that could kill Medusa if she'd wronged him. That skull was not leaving him. That skull belonged to him and he would never betray his friend.

He would never remember what happened next, but before he could blink he felt his arms twist painfully and the floor closed in on him quickly. Like the blades of a mixer the insides of his left arms tossed and turned, smashed and shredded and he heard himself scream in pure pain.

"Don't you lay your sticky little hand on me, kid!" Jim shouted and booted him in the back. Paine seared him all the way through his body and he clenched his jaw hard enough for his teeth to gnash, grunted and groaned as he managed to keep his shouts inside. "Don't stick up to your elders, little Hay! You can't always have it your way!" Another boot, in his sides this time and he curled up around his twisted arm as he heard the footsteps leave. "Tomorrow, we'll begin."

Before the light left the room, he gave his arm a look and felt a nausea hit him by the sight. This wasn't the way it was supposed to look, was his last thought before he was trapped in darkness again. This time, he was alone.

* * *

Not a clue, not a single damn clue that could lead them anywhere and they felt trapped in the lab with the unknowing. But Sherlock refused to give up. He made second, third, fourth test on his samples, smashing keyboards and beakers as they came back negative again and again.

John had ended up in one of the office chairs, pulling his hair as he stared down at the white counter and listened to his husband curse and yell. They had never been this clueless before, so left out of a case and John started to lose hope. Maybe Moriarty didn't use Hamish as a passage to them, maybe he just... wanted their boy.

The strong smell of coffee entered his slightly clogged nose and a cold hand touched his shoulder. He lifted his heavy head and was prepared to lay his eyes upon his friend Molly, but was met by the silvery hair and grey eyes.

"Greg?" he croaked and sniffled. The DI smiled calmly but his eyes misty with worry and brows knitted together. He looked thankfully calm, something he and Sherlock needed at the moments and John could let out a deep breath of hurt that had spread in his chest.

"I bought you both some coffee." he said and pushed the cardboard cup a little closer to his elbow.

"Ta." he sighed and took a good sip of the hot drink, actually managing to smile as the caffeine calmed his nerves. He turned his hand around and got a good lock of the watch on his wrist, he could't believe the numbers but doubled checked with the clock on the wall and cursed sadly when he realised that Hamish now had been gone for thirteen hours.  
"Jesus.." he moaned and rubbed his eyes, he didn't want to believe this.

"Fuck it!" Sherlock shrieked and tossed another beaker across the room and John twitched in his seat, his husband had never spoken such a foul word before. "How is this even possible!?" He pulled his hair by the roots, groaned loudly and curled himself up where he stood, stomped his feet and suddenly banged both his fists to the counter. The microscope flew across the room and hit the wall with a loud crack as it turned to pieces and landed in a broken pile on the floor.

"Sherlock!?" Greg shouted when the detective slammed both his hands into the pieces of sharp glass on the counter. "Jesus Christ! Calm down!"

"Sherlock!" John called and tossed himself across the room and grabbed him by the wrists before anything more got destroyed during his row. The blood dripped from the cuts in his hands and his face was hidden behind the dark hair that had lost its neat curls.

"There's always something, John." he growled under his breath. "Always! This... This isn't even possible! How can a man move without leaving a trace!? This isn't how it's supposed to work!"

"Sherlock!" John shouted and gave him a good shake. "You need to calm down!"

"How, John!?" Sherlock shouted to his face. "How exactly am I supposed to calm down!?"

"I don't know, Sherlock! But you're bleeding!" John thundered and raised both his hands for him to get a proper look. "This isn't..."

Then a phone rang and both men silenced and looked over to Sherlock coat hanging over the chair. But his phone wasn't the source of the loud ringing. Somewhere in this lab something trying to contact them was hidden.

"Find it!" Sherlock commanded and pulled his bleeding hands loose

They searched every drawer, box, folder, cabined. A sound this loud was not easy to found in a room as big as this. The sound travelled between the walls and furnitures and John felt his heart pound in his chest for each ring. But then, deep down in one of the cabinets behind cotton swabs and tissues, John saw the blinking screen of the mobile phone.

"Sherlock?" he gulped as he stared at the phone in his hand and the detective jumped over the broad counter and snatched it out of his hand. Without as much as a blink he brought the speaker to his ear.

"Hello?" he sneered and stared at John as he heard the childish voice on the other side.

"Well hello, Sherly." the man chimed on the other side and the detective went stiff by the voice, travelled ten years back in time. "Did you miss me?" Sherlock pursed his lips and John whimpered before him in fear.

"Where is my son?" he growled into the phone and felt his fingers tremble around the device. "Whatever grudge is between us, don't let my him suffer for it. He's not yours to toy with."

"Oh, Sherly, Sherly, Sherly." Jim snickered and Sherlock could basically hear him shake his head. "You've got it all wrong." John took a step forward and grasped Sherlock's sleeve, looked him in the eyes to keep him here, not letting him travel away inside that big head of his and Sherlock held his gaze. "I'm not playing with him. I'm using him to play a little game. If he brakes the rules someone might be hurt. He's already broken one, so I broke one of his bones." The detective's blood went cold and he tore his gaze from his husband, staggered across the room in fury.

"Don't you lay a hand on him!" he thundered and stopped before the white wall. "Don't you dare hurt him or I swear, your death will be more than just painful."

"Oh, I'm planning on it." Moriarty laughed and Sherlock clenched his throbbing hand into a rock hard fist, felt the pieces of glass go deeper in his flesh. "When, and if, you'll ever find me, I'll step down. But there are things that need to be done. The people of London need to see that the streets aren't as safe as you've made them. I know this isn't as complicated as the last game we shared, but who the hell cares? As long as it's fun."

"What exactly are you planning?" Sherlock asked and licked bit down on his bottom lip, took a deep breath through his nose."

"Oh, you will soon notice." Moriarty smirked. "But for now, go home. Crawl down with your dear doctor in that big bed of yours. And you better do as I say, or every dark window you pass will be a sign of death for you both, if you catch my drift. Tomorrow things in London will take a turn. Or like one old lady once said. Boom, boom."

* * *

**Okay, so what did you think? Tell me, leave a review and next chapter will be up soon enough. **


	14. Almost nephew

**Oh my lord, the angst. I never realized this story would be so sad. What am I doing? **

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock? What did he say? Is he alright? Hamish, is he alright?" The fog left his eyes and John appeared before him once more. But something was wrong, John wasn't really... John. His doctor looked grey, at least ten years older and the blond strands looked like they'd been washed away from his short hair. It was like John had lost the will to live with that short call and Sherlock wondered how he must look right now. Did he look as lifeless as his husband?

"Sherlock!?" John shouted with tears clinging to his lashes. "Did he say anything about Hamish!?" The detective slipped the phone into his pocket and buttoned his jacket while he cleared his throat. His answers to John's questions wouldn't leave his mouth easily even if he didn't know how much of the information was true. Two strong hands grabbed his arms painfully hard and John pierced him with his blue eyes, pinning him to this moment and not letting him slip away into any other deep thought.

"Sherlock." he stuttered and shivered uncontrollably before his husband, shiver after shiver traveling down like icy water down his straight spine. "...please." He sounded so small and Sherlock had never heard him like this. So beaten and scared. How would he ever be able so tell him what Jim had told him? He pulled himself loose from his grip and with heavy steps he made his way over to his coat folded over the chair.

"We need to go home, John." he breathed without lifting his gaze of the laminated floor.

The doctor felt his hands tremble as he stared into the wall where his husband earlier had stood. He blinked and heard the blood pump in his ears as he clenched his hands into hard fists. Something must have happened, something so bad Sherlock didn't even want to mention it to him.

Oh Hamish...

"Sherlock!?"

The doctor jumped by the loud shout that pulled him out of the aching pondering and he turned to see a red-faced Lestrade standing on the other side of the wide counter. "Don't do this Sherlock. Don't run off on your own without telling us."

"I am not running off!" Sherlock shouted and buttoned his big coat around his lanky frame, turned up his collar and gathered the small samples in his pockets.

"Then what are you doing?" Greg asked and rubbed a hand over his scruffy chin. "Just because his your son it doesn't make it your case. You have to keep us all updated in this!"

The detective frowned and the bushy eyebrows disappeared underneath his curls. Nostrils fluttered and he gritted his teeth as he thought about his options. The doctor observed him in silence, trembled where he stood, obviously in grave shock if he could read himself right and the detective eyed their friend with dark eyes.

"Our son, Greg, is according to his kidnapper gravely injured and he has given us an option." he growled and John whimpered weakly in his corner, covered his mouth with his trembling hand and bit back the next sound that was going to be a sob. The DI screwed his eyes shut and shook his head unnoticeably. His long arms clenched around his own body as he lowered his head and just for a moment giving into the fears for his 'almost nephew's' health.

"What's our options?" John quaked and swallowed his tears. A big sigh escaped Sherlock throat and he pulled his curls by the roots.

"Go home, or pick out a coffin." he answered and John uttered a small whine, scrunched up his face in pure pain. "He wants to watch us dance. And this time it pains me to say that I think we should do as he says. Every dark corner and window is right now a threat to us both, John. We need to play our cards right because we can't afford to lose this game." And then Sherlock did something Greg had never in his life seen him do. He broke down. Splattered into a mess of tears and whimpering as he pulled his hair. Not even during his fight with all those poisons had Greg witnessed something ripple through the detective as hard as now. John on the other hand had seen a milder display of this not two hours ago, but still shocked as Sherlock fell back against the wall with a low thud. Groaning, moaning in pure loss, despair and shame.

_She doesn't matter, she's just a hostage. No leads there. _

_Try to remember there's a woman here who might die. _

_What for? This hospital is full of people dying, doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside, see what good it does them. _

How could he ever have been so cruel?

"Sherlock?" Greg quaked and took a step closer to the man who'd hunched into something so unlike the human form.

"What are we supposed to do, John?" the detective whimpered and sank to the cold floor. The question tasted foul on his tongue and he'd never spoken that sentence before. It scared him that his fear had developed so far he asked his husband for advice. "I can't... I don't..."

John sniffled, wiped his tears with his sleeve before padding across the floor to get to him, hold him tight and bring him the small comfort he could afford to give. Sherlock covered his eyes with the heals of his hands and gave up the small sob that been hurting his throat.

"My boy." he cried and started to tremble as John's warm arms embraced him. "My little boy."

The doctor didn't know where to touch, what to say, what to do to his husband to get him out of this. He'd never seemed so weak. Moriarty had finally broken Sherlock. John let him fall into his chest and he cradled his head to his neck, brushed his lips to his temple as his own tears fell.

"We'll get him back." John murmured close to his ear and sniffled, did everything he could to keep his voice from breaking. "Alright? We.. we have to get him back. We'll think of something. We just..." He cursed over his breath and screwed his eyes shut as he buried himself in the dark curls, the only hideout he could find from this cruel reality.

"I know that this won't give you much comfort but..." Greg sighed and rubbed a hand across his teared face. "I've put half of the yard out as a search patrol. They're literary combing every street and corner for him." Greg cleared his throat and rounded the counter, leaving wet marks of the melting snow on his shoes. Then he crouched before them both, braiding his hands together licked his lips. "I wont let anyone rest until we got him back. I promise. I'll do everything I can to get him back to you. Alright. I'm not gonna rest until I see that little rascals face again."

John huffed a small laugh and turned his head in the field of curls to see the DI who'd just given them both a very big promise. Tears was staining his greyish face, those warm brown eyes was rimmed read but he was, as always, wearing that calm smile. John could only imagine how well he'd once handled Sherlock and getting him through addiction. Greg was truly a good man. Or as he would say, a fine lad.

"For god's sake." Greg grinned and wiped the tears staining his cheeks. "That little kid is the closest thing I've got to a nephew." He lowered his gaze to his shoes and took a deep breath to calm his nerves before a nervous laugh slipped over his tongue. "The closest thing I have to any sort of family to be perfectly honest."

"Oh for god's sake, Lestrade." Sherlock sniffled and lifted his head, face stained by tears and snot. "Don't make this more miserable than it needs to be." Greg laughed and scratched his scruffy jaw.

"You're an arse, Sherlock Holmes." he grinned with a breaking voice and John joined him in the ease of pain with a small giggle, but it didn't last long before the thought of Hamish's wellbeing hunted them. Sherlock fell back to John's shoulder, face scrunched up as he demanded to make his chin stop trembling and he thought about his little boy. Somewhere he was trapped in the hands of the most dangerous man he'd ever encountered, and there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. He wasn't worthy to call himself a detective. Hell, he wasn't even worthy to call himself a Holmes at the moment.

"Sherlock." John croaked and tickled the back of his neck with light fingers. "We'll do whatever you say. You know the man better than any of us do and you know what he's capable of. If you think we should go home, we'll go home."

The detective cleared his throat and blinked, hated himself for what he was about to say.

"We should call Mycroft." he mumbled. "See what he can do. But we should go home first." John whimpered, almost disappointedly but he knew Sherlock wouldn't take those decisions without a grave reason.

"Okay." he quaked and felt the tears starting to burn again. "Okay." Greg wiped his tears with the back of his hand, took a few deep breath to calm himself.

"I'll give you a ride."

"I'm not stepping into your police car today, Lestrade." Sherlock groaned and shook his head.

"My shift ended hours ago." he croaked and wiped a new set of tears. "I've got my own. I'm here to help, not to work. Hell, if you're on house arrest under his strict orders, you need someone to do the shopping, am I right?"

* * *

Every time he shifted in his light sleep the pain seared through his vessel and he was pulled into a waken state over and over again. Four broken bones, upper arm, three ribs. On top of that, muscle tearing, bruising, dislocated shoulder which would be a pain to pop back when it was the same arm that was broken. The useless limb laid sprawled across his chest at the moment, throbbing, pulsing. To get it out of the sleeve of his cardigan was the most painful thing he'd ever done to himself, not to mention that doing such a thing in the dark didn't really help.

Even if he feared the dark he almost feared the light more at the moment. The second those lights came on he would get a good look of himself. Every bruise and swell would be visible and he did not long for that sight but yet he wondered how his arm would look. The cold didn't help either. The shivering had started maybe an hour ago and his clothes were damp by the moisture in the air and the water dripping from the pipes. The mattress was wet and the blanket was useless.

He moaned as another shiver travelled through him and all the way out to his fingers, his teared muscle twitched around his broken bones and he bit down on his bottom lip not to cry out in pain. He would never give the people outside that door the pleasure of hearing him scream. Plus, screaming hurt with three broken ribs pressing to your lungs.

Still panicked though. This lonesome situation didn't really go well together with his try to keep himself calm. The short minutes he managed to close his eyes, before he woke up in pain from trying to move, was filled with nightmares. Sometimes he woke up whimpering, dreaming he was drowning and water crushing down on him, filling his lungs, nose and ears. Other times it was teeth digging into his fingers and toes, possibly caused by the cold nibbling his skin, and once again the christmas song mentioning Jack Frost turned up in his head again. Of course it brought him back to the parking lot and every conversation he and Sebastian had had haunted his mind again, making him feel stupid and dumb. He stayed awake and cried another hours because of it before he finally dosed off again, only to wake up in pain and panic ten minutes later with the heart stuck in his throat and eyes searching for anything to concentrate on in this darkness.

"Dad.." he whispered into the blackness, just hoping that that word would give him some sort of comfort. "Daddy..." He swallowed his tears and decided to experiment, just to see if it could do him any good. "I don't feel well." And he imagined what his fathers would do in a situation like this. Of course take him to the hospital, make sure he was patched up, then cuddle him like never before. They would stroke his hair, kiss his fingers, wound him in many blankets and let him watch whatever he wanted on the telly. They would cradle him in their arms, let in sleep with his head leaned against one of their chests and nuzzle his temple.

This didn't help. His sobbing got so bad he started to hiccup, and as he started to hiccup every twitch sent searing pain through him again. He'd never felt so awful and he gritted his teeth until he thought they would crack.

He missed them so much. He had never needed them as much as now.

Then it happened, with a pang and a explosion of white light he was blinded. He screwed his eyes shut and groaned painfully as they burned. His head fell to the side and it felt like his brain had turned into sand that shifted by each move. He made a desperate try to blink and the red paint became clearer and clearer until he could see every stroke of the brush. It was time to take a look.

With a huge amount of effort, he lifted his head, slowly placing his gaze upon his arm and he almost threw up by the sight. Three times bigger than a normal arm, blue, red and yellow and slightly twisted to the left. God how he hated to be right-handed right now.

With a silent thud his head fell back in the mattress and he closed his eyes again, swallowed the tears and took a breath as deep as his ribs would allow him.

Today was the day the games would begin, whatever than meant. He didn't know what to expect. What game could that man have in mind. Certainly not cluedo. Whatever it was, Hamish did not feel well enough to leave this mattress. He could hardly sit up, just imagine what kinds of pain would travel through his body if he tried to walk.

God he needed to pee. And had needed to pee for the last couple of hours. With the wall's help, he managed to sit up. Grunting and whimpering he leaned back to the wall and kept a sturdy hand under his elbow of his broken arm. He needed to make a sling out of something, and someone to pop his shoulder and bone back. Hopefully it wouldn't be long before he laid sedated on an operating table before that happened, but for now, a sling would do him something at least.

God did it hurt to stand up. He was right, he was not well enough to leave the mattress. But he needed to relieve himself now before he would ruin the only pair of pants he owned right now. He managed to drag himself over to the door, the flakes of the paint danced before his eyes and he let go of his elbow to knock at the hard metal. The loud clonking hurt his head and he gritted his teeth.

"Hello!" he called out and hated how weak he sounded. "Please..." He grimaced as he grasped his elbow again. "I really need to use the bathroom! Please..." Nothing, not a sound, voice or footstep. "Please! The bathroom is six feet from here, I was there yesterday. You can't deny me a trip that short." Still not a sound and he leaned his head to the door and fought the urge. "Please.."

Was this his punishment for launching out after the skull yesterday? Wasn't the arm bad enough? Suddenly there was a clonk and a creak and Hamish stumbled backwards to move himself out of the way as the door swung open. A woman this time, late forties, short and her blond hair tied back into a ponytail. She didn't look like much, not as frightening as the gun resting against her thigh.

"You need to pee?" she asked and Hamish just stared. She didn't look like villain, neither a mercenary.

"Please." he whimpered again and the woman pulled the gun from the holster.

"Don't think I won't pull the trigger if you run, kid." she sighed, like this was everyday work to her, that scared him even more. Where did the man find all these cruel and emotionless people? He just nodded, decided to keep his mouth shut as long as he could and he stepped out in the corridor. The long way of walls and pipes swayed before his eyes and he hurried the best he could to the door. The little sleep he'd gotten was horrible, or was there a fever as well?

The woman shuffled him into the bathroom and closed the door, not giving him a specific time and Hamish stumbled over to the toilet, sighed loudly as he could finally relieve himself and he almost fainted when he was done. He had to braise himself to the wall not to fall over. Fever then.

He made a quick wash in the sink, cleaned his hands, neck and face and sipped some of the cool water. He cleaned the cuts and bruises with some of the paper towels and hissed when he tried to cool down the swell of his arm. He looked at himself in the stained mirror and almost cried out in fear when he didn't recognise the boy staring back at him. So bruised and broken. He looked so small and weak. And it had only been a day, maybe two. What would he look like if a week passed? What would his fathers think when they found him like this? If they ever found him. He closed his eyes hard and held his broken arm tight to his chest again, held back the shiver that tried to make him freeze again.

Please, let them find me.

* * *

**Leave a review, they'll alway make me happy even if the chapters are sad. Thank you for earlier reviews as well. Next chapter will be up soon and the angst will continue. **


	15. Holmes the older, and the younger

**Hello again. So the angst continues and I am terribly sorry, I can't understand why I keep writing this stuff when it doesn't make me or anyone else happy. **

**Anyways, this chapter contains a short little background story to Sherlock's and Mycroft relationship. The reason for their feud and love as brothers.**

* * *

The stairs of Baker Street had never seemed so long. Climbing it took forever, like step after step just appeared under their feet until their legs were exhausted and didn't want to bring them to their destination. Their bodies protested to their act, aware that they couldn't do anything to bring what they craved into their waiting arms and John felt empty in the inside. His heart kept beating, but not for him. It just barely kept him alive, kept him walking so he wouldn't loose hope. John was now sure, that if hope left him it would come to a sudden stop.

They reached the flat and Sherlock stopped in the hallway, stared into the sitting room with tired, empty eyes, not even grey anymore. They'r turned into a pale green, almost white and John felt afraid every time he looked into those cold eyes. He could read the pain in those irises. Like a mood ring those eyes would change colours after the detective's thoughts and feelings. The most open thing about him, the windows to his soul and John had after all these years created a chart to read the different shades of green, blue, grey and yellow. Today's colour was new, but the doctor could already place it on the chart.

The detective roamed the room for a long minute or so before he suddenly lowered his head, blinked and disappeared into his great mind to forget, just for a moment. He took the first step through the door into the room and felt a rock grow heavier and heavier in his chest, slowly pulling his weight down to the floor until his feet was flat in his shoes, until his voice was eaten by his inside and his head to go blank until only one thought was left.

Would Hamish ever walk these rooms again?

He made his way over to the table overrun by papers, folders, dirty teacups and the small little note Hamish had written a couple of days ago.

_At little blue dragon_

_Very hungry. _

_Back soon._

His heart twisted and turned painfully and he traced those shaky little letters with the tip of his finger, wondering if Hamish's writing always would remain the ways of a child's, if Hamish never would become more than a child. Maybe he wouldn't be more than a memory from now on.

He took a deep breath and pressed the tears back where they came from, straightened himself where he stood to let go of the feeling of being trapped in himself. Once again he returned to the world around him.

"John?"

His husband was standing next to the majestic piece of an instrument, touched the black and white keys without pressing them and imagined the small little fingers that so gracefully would make music fill the room with this instrument. He remembered the face of a four-year-old Hamish when he got this for christmas. The boy, as all other little boys and girls on Christmas day, had woken up early, sprinted down the stairs at six a.m, more than ready for gifts and didn't even notice the sheet hiding something very big in the corner. All his senses were concentrated on the gifts under the heavy branches of the tree, reading label after label to find anything for him while his fathers tried to feed him breakfast. 'Not interested!' he had shouted and started to get more and more confused when none of the gifts was for him. The face of him when he turned to his fathers was priceless, disappointment and anger written all over his soft lines and his hair like a birds nest. 'Santa brought me nothing!" he'd shrieked and tears formed in those blue-green eyes.

John smiled of the memory and stroke his hand over the black paint and golden letters of the piano. He remembered that morning like it was yesterday. He and Sherlock had acted just as confused and angered as him, seeing their son getting more and more upset until the boy decided that christmas was canceled. Then anger had turned into doubt and he questioned his fathers if he hadn't been good enough. How in the world he had ended up on the naughty list and why? And then Sherlock had gasped, pointed to the corner of the room and the boy turned from miserable to excited in seconds and the tears that had been threatening to fall turned from sorrow to joy as he pulled the sheet. He'd screamed and jumped up and down and Sherlock and John pretended to be in shock, like that piano had appeared out of nowhere, like santa had heard a boy cry from the north pole and remember that he'd forgotten one little child and by magic brought the instrument into their flat. Hamish believed exactly that for two years. The christmas day they celebrated when he was six, he'd turned to Sherlock and John during breakfast and carefully explained how he didn't believe in Santa anymore and he'd looked sad. He'd wanted to believe, but he had grown up and couldn't believe such childish things anymore. Then he'd smiled again and looked up at his fathers and said 'Thank you for the piano by the way. It's the best gift I've ever received.'

That was last christmas. This christmas Hamish would be seven, and he might not be able to celebrate it. John broke and heard himself whimper in pain.

"It's almost christmas." he quaked and looked up at his husband who had placed himself in the middle of the carpet. "What it he's not back for christmas? He loves christmas." Sherlock pursed his lips and John could see his chin tremble, he was more than aware of their son's favourite holidays.

"Then christmas is cancelled." he answered with his voice laced in pain and John didn't know he was going to laugh or cry by those words. He pinned his hand over his mouth to muffle the weak sound that tried to escape and felt his knees go soft under him as he started to tremble. He took a deep breath through his clogged nose and saw the shadow of Greg enter the flat, take away in his hand, that all of them knew no one was gonna touch, and his face just as blank as Sherlock's.

This silence continued for long minutes, their options were few and without greater results in the end as it seemed. But they kept clinging to hope. Nails would be cracked and bleeding, hair would be pulled, bruises would be formed, teeth would chatter but hope would alway be something to hold on to for dear life. As long as a life was left to save that is.

* * *

It was still dark when the morning came. Winter would always be spent in grey lights and dark blue shades and none of the men in the flat liked this season. Icy roads, snow that needed to be shuffled and not to mention the cold. But none of them feared winter as much as now. The wounds snow and ice could cause a seven-year old was no laughing matter but right now a possibility. Hopefully Hamish was kept warm.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hands, the number to his brother already written but not dialled. The moment his brother picked up he wouldn't have to explain the situation, but he would hear the voice of his older brother in sorrow. He's brother had always been the stronger one, even if he hated to admit it, and Sherlock could only imagine how Mycroft was taking this.

He'd seen Mycroft in emotional pain before. Those days was behind them since long ago but far from forgotten. Sherlock would never forget the the hour he woke up at the hospital, still in a deep fog from the overdose and black and blue from the row he'd ended up in and put him in that bed. But his wounds wasn't what hurt him most, the face of Mycroft would always be burnt into his mind and soul. Those red rimmed eyes caused by salty tears, his pale complexion caused by worry, and his red hair messy by the all the times he'd pulled in by the roots during the cardiac arrest Sherlock had gone through. Heroin overdose and knife wounds to the back didn't go well together. It was a horrible week for them both, but not only because of the wounds.

And now..

He wasn't surprised that they hadn't heard from his yet. He knew his brother well enough to know that he was working on this, the reason Sherlock and John needed to call him was for updates, help, advices, and many other reasons that Sherlock couldn't figure.

He looked down at the number again and sighed. John, sitting in the other chair in front of him had fallen into a bad habit from his childhood and nail after nail was ripped from his finger, eyed him shallowly. John wasn't really here.

Then there was a knock on the door and the friendly voice of the old woman eased the tension in the room. Her purple dress swaying by her ankles and face glowing as she carried a bowl of breakfast-porridge in her hands

"Ho-ho?" she sang and entered without waiting for permission, she always had it. But her smile quickly turned to a frown when he saw the three men sitting quietly around the flat, staring into nothingness with the untouched food on the table. Once again, Sherlock felt his heart twist and turn. No one had told her yet. "What happened?" She glared between them all before she eyed Lestrade, the man who let his two favourite boys get into trouble without getting into trouble. "What have you done to them now, Greg." she tutted and placed the bowl on the table, thinking that they once again had ended up at a dead end or accidentally gotten someone killed. "I've told you, mr Lestrade, you shouldn't trouble the boys. They don't have time for your shenanigans this close to christmas."

John choked a whine in his chair and turned his head to the mantlepiece, tried to turn himself off once more. And that's when the old lady started to understand what was going on. She turned to the hallway, noticed how one of the hooks missed a jacket, the spot where the small shoes used to be so neatly placed and how the bag was missing from the chair by the door.

"Where's Hamish?" she asked, sounding very calm as she turned to the boys again, but worry was laced into that protecting voice of hers and Sherlock felt only smaller by it. This was also going to brake the strongest woman in London.

"Hamish.." he began and eased the grip around the phone and without looking at the woman as he told her. "He's kidnapped." She gasped, her thin hand grasped the dress above her heart and her pale eyes pierced her two lodgers with a hint of disgust more than fear.

"Who could do such a awful thing?" she growled like a wild lioness. "Who's got him? Where is the poor thing!?"

Greg was the one to save the two men who'd just calmed themselves down and did not have a single ounce of energy left to calm another one. He heaved himself up from the sofa and grasped her gently by the arm, led her out to the kitchen and explained to her carefully what had happened and Sherlock scrunched up his face when he heard the old woman break into tears. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen her cry, or maybe he just didn't want to remember, or even never seen her. He didn't even know anymore.

He tore himself from the moment and looked down on the phone again, stared at the simple numbers which when dialled could have the most powerful outcome depending in Sherlock's demands and how far his brother was ready to go. Right now, his brother would probably go to the end of the earth to get his nephew back.

So he called.

It took three long signals before he heard the voice that could both anger and calm the detective and he felt his insides twist.

"Little brother." Mycroft mumbled and Sherlock could nearly smell the calming whisky over the phone. "My condolences."

"There are no condolences as long as he's alive." Sherlock said quickly and raised from the chair. He needed out of this room, away from all the humans that intruded his sorrow. There were two many people in the flat, but none stupid. He retreaded to the bedroom and locked the door behind him. Not letting anyone in as he spoke to his brother on a level they both kept as a secret. They might be enemies, but still brothers. Family is all we have in the end.

"There is still suffering and sorrow in the disappearance of a loved one." Holmes the older continued as Sherlock padded over to the frosty window. He stared at the dark blue sky, sun was about to rise above the roofs, make the snow glitter and he reached out a hand to touch the cold glass. Even if Sherlock had explained the reason for falling snow Hamish still called it a miracle. 'Even if everything has an explanation and a reason for its doing doesn't mean that the beginning of it isn't a miracle'. Sherlock had opened his mouth to protest but couldn't find any words to do so. His clever boy had the mind of a philosopher. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt just as cold as the snow falling upon the rooftops.

"Mycroft.." he breathed into the phone and tried to imagine his brother's presence which always meant safety. He was raised with that feeling, Mycroft had always been there. A young Sherlock had grown up in a family where the closest thing he had to a father and mother was his brother. And there was the foundation in their feud.

A young boy at thirteen couldn't understand why his so much older brother could leave him in a place like home. That an education could be more important than a brother. The day Mycroft left home, Sherlock was left alone and had no one to fall back on when days got hellish in school or with father and mother. No one to comfort him and clean his wounds after the beatings, no one to make him laugh in the middle of crying. Sherlock was on his own for five years in that hell before he escaped. One way ticket to London with his stomach full of hatred for his family and with no destination what so ever, he stumbled upon a man who introduced him to the world of sedatives and painkillers, offered him a mattress in a room with no heating or windows where he could concentrate on the only thing he had left, work.

The next time he saw his brother was the week he was stabbed in the back while tripping on a way to high dose. Five years with short letters that Sherlock never answered Mycroft was suddenly there. His red hair burning as fire to lead him home from unconsciousness, hand in hand to keep him in this world. So this is what it takes, was Sherlock first thought as he saw him, your brother needs to be close to dying for you to come. But when he came through and saw the pain he'd caused his brother because of the lifestyle he'd chosen, Sherlock could find a small ounce of forgiveness deep inside his starved heart that hadn't been fed with love for years.

His brother payed the bills for rehab as soon as he was back on his feet. His brother wouldn't leave him again. But Sherlock would always be sceptic, always angry, because he feared that one day Mycroft would do it again. Leave.

So, Mycroft became the british government. The only way he could always keep an eye on his brother without bothering him, but that was never enough. Sherlock was still alone and would never let Mycroft in on his life as close as before, so the older Holmes started the search for a suitable companion for his brother. But somehow Sherlock managed to do that on his own.

"What can we do?" Sherlock whispered into the phone and felt his fingers get colder and colder as he touched the glass.

"Keep calm, Sherlock." Mycroft said with a lazy voice. "Don't take any wrong steps."

"I'm under house arrest, Mycroft!" Sherlock fumed. "I can't do a single thing." The older brother hummed into the phone and the detective knew that sound. The sound of an idea.

"Well." Mycroft murmured. "I'm not."

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**I honestly hope I haven't caused to many tears. I know I've broken some heart and caused some feels, but bare with me... I am not a cruel writer. **


	16. Red, green and black

**Whoa! It's been like ages since I updated this. Sorry 'bout that. Here you go. **

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The door pulled open just as he was cooling the big bruises of his chest and he jumped in front of the stained mirror, felt the pain rush through his body but he kept himself from hissing when he saw the man behind him. So it was time. The game master had arrived. He smiled that horrible smile taken from a ghost story and leaned to the doorframe in his grey suit, hair smother on his head and his dark brown eyes burning with an evil playfulness.

"Are you ready, little Hay?" he asked with his voice made for singing and Hamish shivered every time it reached his ears. Then the man placed his gaze upon his bruised and horribly twisted arm and smiled proudly. "Look at that, I've broke you more than I meant to." He braised himself against the door and pushed himself up. "Does it hurt?" He took a step forward and the boy backed up until he felt the cold sink touch his neck. "May I have a look?"

The arm throbbed and seared as he held it a little tighter to his chest. Did the man really want to inspect the wounds he'd caused him? To malice in the bruises, cuts and broken bones like he was a piece of sheet that he'd created beautiful art on and now he wanted to see how the paint had dried. The cold hand reached out for his wrist and Hamish closed his eyes, travelled as far away as he could in his mind palace as the villain pushed his cardigan aside and gazed upon the black and blue skin.

"Oh." he trembled under his breath as if the sight was marvellous. "Well look at that. That's gotta hurt." A slender finger flicked over the massive swell and Hamish twitched in pain as every vein reacted to the small touch. He whimpered in pain and barely balanced in his wobbling knees. "There, there. It's nothing that can't be fixed." Jim sang and covered his arm with the cardigan again. "Maybe you'll forget about the pain if we so something together."  
He doubted it, but what could a seven-year-old do to contradict such a statement from a madman. He braised his small hand under his aching elbow again and took a deep breath to calm his drumming heart that made the swell pulsate. Head was getting foggy. Was he about to faint again?

"C'mon Hay-boy." Jim beamed and gave his shoulder a 'friendly' swat. "Let's move to the play room."

Move? Where?

He dragged his feet over the gritted floor full of flakes from paint and dust from dry concrete that was coloured red by the rusty pipes, out from the small bathroom and to his surprise they turned away from his jail and followed stared to the end of the long corridor with the big sign at the end. Hopefully it would give him some clue. Then he felt a hard poke at the back of his skull and he didn't dare to turn his head when he slowly came to the conclusion that the barrel of a gun was buried between the wet strands of his hair.

"Just keep walking, boy." a woman voice ordered and pushed him forward. He staggered over the floor and just managed to avoid stepping into Moriarty's grey suit. He wondered how long he could keep upright before his knees would give in under him. "And keep your head low."

He hunched his shoulders to his ears and lowered his heavy head, stared to the floor with misty eyes and counted the steps. Everything of importance needed to be filed in his memory. Every step would be another pencil line on his map of this place. If this house had more than one floor, hopefully every floor would have the same basic structure and he only needed one map to find his way out _if _ he ever managed to escape.

Thirty-seven steps to the end of the corridor and he lifted his head slightly, got one look of the sign with big red letters and took a mental picture. It wasn't a warning-sign. It was a laundry schedule. Hamish gasped, hopefully unnoticeable. This was an old apartment building with a bunker under the house. But it was abandoned, that schedule hadn't been written on since the eighties.

The took left and there was another corridor, broader with just as many and long pipes climbing the walls and Hamish noticed the three metal doors on the way down to another turn. Gym, laundry, storage Forty-nine steps to the end, then right and a door.

They entered a room, probably an old stock room with shelves that once had been filled to the brim with cans with food incase bombs would drop from the sky and start the apocalypse and lead the world to the inevitable end. Now, though, it was just a room with a desk in the middle with a map, like the army as they decided routs of attacks and hideouts.

"Have a sit, little Hay." Jim sang and pulled the chair out for him. He gave him a sceptical glance. That map, the things little Hamish could point out on that map wouldn't leave many pins, but the routs he could paint out for invisible paths were many. Was that what Jim needed?

He padded over to the chair, thought bout the promise he'd made himself to be thankful for the little things. Right now he really needed to sit down, and a chair was many times better than that wet mattress of his. He sat down on the edge of it and Jim pushed it close to the table.

"Now." the villain continued and the door slammed closed making Hamish jump in his chair and turn. The woman was gone, it was just him and the villain left in the room. He swallowed and turned back to the desk, saw Jim sit down in front of him and lean back with crossed arms.

And that smile. Hamish would never forget that smile for as long as he lived. Those teeth that glowed brighter than his nightlight and so sweet and sour it reminded him of any evil disney-character that'd ever been created.

"Your book gave me more to chew than I could swallow." he smiled and tilted his head to the side. "I thought it would be a good idea to get some tasty stuff on your fathers but you adorned it quite beautifully with something I never would have guessed." He reached his hand down in his chest pocket and gave the objects a small glance. "I'm jealous, Hay. You would be a good spy with that." He clutched his hand hard around whatever was in there and looked up at the boy under his thick eyelashes and plucked eyebrows. "But that's something you would never use it for. You're too good to be a spy."

The warmth was sucked out of the room and Hamish was surprised that his breaths didn't mist as they left him. He was shivering in cold and fever and was almost at the edge to beg for a blanket but words was stuck in his sore throat. "You hide. You're the boy who's always watched, always under protection and you, you clever little boy, have found a way to hide from it."

He stretched out his arm over the map and placed his hand on the table before the little boy. "You have a system criminals would kill for." He pulled his hand back and Hamish stared at the three pens in front of him and felt his heart skip a beat. "Red, the colour of being seen. Black, the colour of risk. And green, the colour of invisibility." A pencil of each colour was right there, and in front of him was the map of London and Hamish turned his head. "Beautiful words written by a seven-year-old."

His face was about to explode by the tears he so desperately tried to hold back, by the sobs he tried to choke. That book. That damn book that at first sight had been the most wonderful gift had turned into his Achilles heal. Every letter he'd written had been another step closer to his defeat. How stupid he'd been. He should never had kept notes.

"Hamish, the invisible boy." Jim smiled and gaped at him with two very intrigued, dark eyes. "I have use for you, Hay. If you only knew how hard it is to get through London unseen."

He could taste blood at his tongue as he bit down on his cheek. With other words, they couldn't be in London right now. This man must be a very wanted man if he couldn't spare a single second on the camera. Hamish had with that book made himself into a key for Jim to move in London again. He just wished his fathers had told him about this creep so he didn't have to sit here unknowing from what he'd gotten stuck in.

"There are places I want to go." he continued and brought out a blue pen from his pocket. He popped the cap of and drew three big circles on the map and Hamish new those locations without reading the name of the streets, its was all imprinted in his head since that day with Mycroft at he had never hated that knowledge as much as now. Just by seeing those three circles his head was put to work. Green, red and black lined up in every direction from the spot and continued in his head until the whole map was just a great, big, colourful web. He took a deep breath and blinked.

Moriarty was going to strike on three places. Greg's flat, Mycroft's mansion and last of them 221B Baker street. The three most dangerous places for a man like him, but right now weakened as long as he had Hamish as a hostage.

"What d'you want with them?" he asked with a small voice and tried to ignore as his arm started to throb again. The pieces of bones ground to each other like blades and he hissed painfully as he started to feel faint again. The man hummed happily and sighed.

"Don't worry. I won't lay a hand on them. Just pay them a visit." He rubbed his hands together and raised an eyebrow. "No one you love will come to harm as long as you cooperate." Hamish swallowed and cleared his throat.

"This is a suicide mission, you know that." he quaked and managed to hold back the sobs as he looked up at his kidnapper. Jim giggled and leaned back in his chair again.

"Did it come to your conclusion that that's exactly the point?" he asked and leaned to the table. "I've got the axe at my neck in more towns than this one but i thought I would play one last game before it strikes. And you made it better than I could ever imagine, little Hay."

So this was just for fun. Not revenge, not out of hatred, not to get anything. Moriarty was, actually, just playing. Hamish had never met someone so delusional. Jim played to reach his one and only goal. Death. And he needed Hamish's help. "I've put your daddies on house arrest." he explained. "They can't move a limb without getting you killed and you can't disobey my orders without giving them the same fate. And if you paint one single line out of order and messes this up, someone will pull the trigger on you fathers the second I'm captured." Hamish huffed a nervous laugh.

"Isn't that the work of a coward?" he asked and lowered his gaze, he did not want to see the face of anger on that man. "Forcing us to follow orders under gunpoint."  
The shuffling sound of Jim pushing the pens closer echoed in the room and he lifted his heavy head again.

"Do you dare to disobey me, Hamish?" he asked coldly and pinned him to the hard chair, but Hamish had a contra question.

"There's lots of people I don't know in London." he said. "How many of them will come to harm if I help you?" Moriarty smiled happily and leaned over the table, stared at him with those burning, dark eyes and took a deep breath.

"Lots."

How ever Hamish played this game people would die. He now knew the rules and they seemed impossible to cheat. It certainly wasn't fair to choose between lives, but to keep in mind that Hamish i a very young boy he does consider his family to be more important. He thought long and hard about what his fathers would do, how many lines they would cross to save him and how many rules they would break just to save their son. Hamish would do the exact same thing for him.

So with his still movable hand he picked up the pen, the green one, and looked up at the villain, the monster, the creep that put maybe dozens of lives in the hands of a seven-year-old and swallowed his tears, unattached himself from feelings for a moment.

"Where d'you plan to start?" he asked and Jim shrugged and pursed his thin lips.

"Where would you start?" he replied and put the blue pen back in his pocket. Hamish looked down on the map again and scanned the edges of the city, knew exactly where Mycroft's field ended and reached out his shaky arm. The pen scratched the paper and he drew a small spot, traced it a couple of centimetres down the small street, zigzagged down alleys, used fire escapes and roofs where he knew cameras wouldn't even catch a glimpse of the man. Then he switched to black, drew down some of the streets where the cameras covered a bigger area and had to move, anyone could easily slip past them if they just knew the amount of seconds it took for it to roam from left to right and Hamish hated himself when he had to write the number. Anything for his family, he kept reminding himself and bit down on the inside of his cheek, harder and harder the closer he got to the three circles. It wasn't long before he could taste iron on his tongue and he felt those dark eyes follow every shaky line he left behind.

Then the black line met the first circle, Greg, and Hamish held back a whimper as his stomach started to turn. But he kept on, closed in on Mycroft and it started to get tricky. That house almost had as many cameras as London itself in that garden. It was a fortress protected by magic, there was no way to get in. Except one. Hamish drew past the house and into one of the small alleys behind and drew a circle.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked suspiciously.

"There's no way into Mycroft's mansion." Hamish quaked and cleared his throbbing throat. "But here... there's a underground track that will lead you straight into the basement. You won't be seen."

The pain seared through his healthy arm when Moriarty seized it by the wrist and the pen rolled over the table. He whimpered and tried to hold his other arm tight to his body when he was pulled closed to the edge of the desk.  
"Are you leading me into some sort of trap, kid?" he growled and the little boy didn't dare to look at his angry face.

"NO, I..."  
"**Look at me!**" he shouted and Hamish jumped in his seat closed his mouth not to shriek. He lifted his gaze and looked up at the man whose grip was about to bruise his skin. His jaw was clenched, eyes dark as his soul and nostrils flaring. "Don't mess with this, Hay! I'm a man of my words and your family will suffer if you try to fool me!"

"I don't dare!" he whimpered and felt the grip tightened. "I'm not.. I.. That is the only way in without getting seen. Mycroft wants to get out of his house from time to time without letting the government know and that's the only way. It's a secret entrance. No surveillance. My uncle has his own secrets." The words blurted out of his mouth and sounded like a bloody mess, but Jim seemed to understand. The grip eased until he let go and put the pen back in his hand.

"Good boy." he smiled and Hamish gritted his teeth until it hurt his mouth. The second he would open that mouth he would sob uncontrollably and he needed to get this over with to get out of this man's presence.

The lines continued and he scrunched up his face as he closed in on Baker street. The black and green lines got shakier and wobbly as if his hand protested. But then he was done. Every line was there and he looked at the red pen in front of him. He hadn't used it once. Why would he, what was the point of drawing streets where he couldn't walk?

"Good." Moriarty murmured and looked at the map with the same face as he had when he inspected Hamish's arm. "Very good indeed." He pulled it closed and followed the lines. "Oh, Hamish. The uses I've got for you." And Hamish's blood turned to ice when he heard that. "All the heist we can cook up together."

"I would never." the boy protested under his breath and Jim lowered the map and tilted his head.

"I wish you could be more like your detective of a father than the doctor. You have your resemblances, but not enough." he whined. "Sherlock is much more fun. Much more like me."

"My dad is nothing like you!" Hamish growled and wanted to slam his fist against the desk but manage to hold himself and Jim laughed.

"You and I are have our resemblances as well you know." he smiled. "You just drew a map that could be that reason for many peoples lives." He quirked and scratched his jaw. "People will die, Hamish." The little boy, who still tried to shut himself out of the reality had only thing to say about that. Something so cruel and cold, but also the only excuse he had for saving his family and killing innocent.

"That's what people do."

Jim beamed by his answer but didn't say a word, just heaved a deep breath and put down the map again. He stood up from his chair and straightened his jacket, walked around the desk until he stood just beside him.

"Breakfast, Hay?" he asked. But Hamish felt dead inside, fever, sorrow, guilt and anger mixed up into a hellish mess of emotions that tried to dig itself out from his guts. He shook his head, not remotely in the mood for food and he swayed back and forth as Jim drew back his chair. "Well then, let me take you back to your room."

The floor didn't catch him as he fell of the chair, he stumbled into the villain who braised the boy up, but this wasn't a mistake, but a plan. As Jim scolded him for being such a dumb kid, this little boy was holding something tight in his and, something he slipped down in his pants in the matter of milliseconds, something he'd gotten out of the villains pocket.

He was back in his cell in no time, not remembering how now as the fever had made him exhausted once more. But the thought of what was hidden in his pants kept him awake and he observed as Jim stepped out, closed the door with the loud clonk before he reached down and picked it up. He held to it for dear life, wondering how many seconds he had before someone realised it'd gone missing.

In his hand, was a phone.

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**Enjoy the cliffhanger people. I am not sorry! Well actually I am. I feel like the most evil person right now. I shouldn't do this to you, but I just love cliffhangers, and my readers. **

**So tell me what you think. **


	17. Blood on both's hands

**Hellohellohello! New chapter up, how 'bout that!? Yet again, angst. I know, I'm a cruel person. But i promise, it will get better!**

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"Let me take a look at your hands."

Sherlock looked up from his feet at his husband, face grey and eyes pale and didn't quite understand. Then he remembered his damaged fingers after smashing the million pieces of glass on the counter and started to feel the stinging pain. The doctor fell to his knees by the bed and wrapped his hand around his thin wrist, turned his hand over until the side of his little finger was facing him. Glass was still buried in his flesh but it didn't look infected, just irritated. "Let me patch you up." He heaved himself up from the floor and padded into the bathroom, leaving the detective on the bedside just staring into the blissful oblivion. He didn't even notice that two hours had passed since the conversation with Mycroft. Time had just flown as he let his head go, for once not thinking of anything. How beautiful it could be to not think or feel for a moment.

The door to the bathroom creaked and he lifted his gaze from his stained hands, saw his wonderful doctor step over the floor with a basin of hot water in his hands and his medical kit under his arm. How he wished he could have studied that man on a battlefield. Even if he'd seen John save people before he would always have a nagging curiosity of his medical skills with gun wounds and severed limbs. He wished he could see his doctor run through hot sand in his uniform, patching up screaming men and women with nothing more than the supplies that got room in that little bag.

John fell to his knees before him again and soaked the cloth in the water that soon would float with his blood and started to clean his wounds. It stung, but didn't hurt. Even if he had the hands of a factory worker he could still be so gentle, Sherlock didn't make a sound as the tweezers plucked every little splinter and fresh blood dripped to the floor. John washed them again with the cloth and started to wound them in gauze. His concentration was put on nothing else, it just felt so good to have something else to care and worry about for a minute.

His hands was nearly useless by now, but John had done and extraordinary job, left the rest of his fingers free for work and tinkering and his doctor snaked his hands into his. He held them and bowed his head to kiss his fingers, lips soft and warm and Sherlock watched him from above. He let his thumb travel the tips of his cupid and John closed his eyes, let his head fall to his lap and Sherlock cradled it with his hand. The ashy blond hair was soft under his touch.

Washed yesterday, a small amount of wax, chin not trimmed since two days ago. A distant smell of smoke and chemicals. Sweat on his brow and face swollen by the hours he'd spent mourning.

He caressed his hair and held his hand in his as he rested for a second, letting go of everything.

"You should sleep." Sherlock murmured and drew a circle around his ear, down his jaw and down to his shoulder.

"Can't." John rasped and blinked. "Every time I fall into slumber I wake up shaking. I can't get rid of the pictures." A hand travelled up his shin until it rested on his knee and there it tightened into a firm grip, just holding on for dear life. "I just want him back, Sherlock." he trembled. "I just wan't our boy back."

The detective was silent when he hooked his hands under his doctors arm, pulled him up and gathered him in his arms and held him put on his lap. John buried his face to the nape of his neck and took a deep breath, let the smells of pine and oils calm and sooth him the best they could and he melted into his touch. He was done crying. There were no more tears to be shed. Tears did them no good. "Don't let go." he pleaded with a small voice. "Please Sherlock."

"I won't." Sherlock promised and held him a little tighter around the waits and buried his fingers in his wheat-coloured jumper, nuzzled his temple and let out a deep breath.

"I miss him, Sherlock." John whispered with his voice laced with fright and pain. "I can't imagine what we would do without him." The detective kept silent and screwed his eyes shut by the thought. "We need to get him back." A deep sigh slipped his lips and he pressed then to John's cheek.

"I won't let anyone end him." he said. "I'll get him back. Whatever it takes. And Mycroft is going to help."

"Mycroft?" John questioned. "He's never helped us before."

"Not us." Sherlock agreed. "But he's helping Hamish."

They were interrupted by a loud ring and John stiffened in his arms and held his breath. It wasn't the signal of the phone they'd found in the lab, but John's own and he looked at the blinking gadget at the side table. It took all his willpower to get of Sherlock's lap to get it and he stared at the number for a long time before he let his finger hoover over the green button. He clicked and brought it to his ear with an awful stone sinking deeper and deeper in his stomach.

"Hello?" The soft buzzing disturbed the connection and John closed his eyes hard and made himself ready to hear the dreadful voice of their enemy.

"Apartment building, abandoned since the eighties."

John gasped and knees buckled under him as he stumbled across the floor. Sherlock's eyes grew with concern as he stood up to catch his unsteady husband that was on the edge of fainting.

"Hamish!?" he cried and Sherlock snatched the phone out of his hands to put it on speaker so they could share the small moment they were given with their son.

"What did you say?" John asked and held on to Sherlock's shoulders with every muscle.

"Apartment building, abandoned since the eighties." the boy repeated under the buzzing. "I'm in a bunker under ground. It smells like ink, mould. It's a brick house. Rusty pipes in the roof and on the walls."

"Good Hamish." Sherlock praised him and John could see the spark of hope being lit once more in his eyes that turned from pale green to blue as he heard their son's voice. "Are you alright?" John rubbed a hand across his face and leaned over the phone waiting for the answer that never came.

"Hamish!?" he cried. "Hamish, talk to us! Are you alright?"

"No." said a small voice and the doctor whimpered. "Dislocated shoulder, my arm is broken and some broken ribs." John cursed under his breath and wiped a couple of tears that started to fall.

"Your arm?" he quaked. "How bad is it?" He didn't answer, only a small sob was heard.

"I'm sorry." he cried and Sherlock shook his head even if his little boy couldn't see him.

"No, Hamish, don't! This is not.. "

"He's coming, dad." Hamish cried and Sherlock shook his head again. "He's coming to you, Greg and Mycroft."

"He can't move in London, handsome. He'll be killed on sight. The whole yard is looking for him.."

"Something's wrong with me!" Hamish interrupted with a loud yell and both his father's just stared at the gadget. "I'm not normal! I've ruined everything!" John shook his head and took the phone, held it close to his mouth to keep his son from having a panic attack.

"W-what? What are you talking about, love? There's nothing wrong with you." But Hamish continued to sob.

"Remember when I disappeared!?" he cried and Sherlock felt all his organs being twisted into knots. The night when not even Mycroft could find him. No one could disappear from the security cameras like that. No one. "Remember that headache!?"

Then there was a loud clonk on the other side of the phone and Sherlock went white as a sheet as his son screamed and a sound of rustle spat from the speaker of the device.

"Hamish!?" John yelled and tensed into a muscular mass were he stood, ready to punch the next man that crossed his path and Sherlock observed. He knew that there was nothing more to be done at the moment but just listen to the last sounds of the call as their boy screamed in fear and pain. Then there was silence and the doctor turned his head to the window with eyes slammed shut. There wasn't a sound, only the low buzzing and Sherlock reached out for the phone when it started to rustle again and then a breath.

"Well wasn't that a fine example for what happens when you break the rules." a joyful voice sang and John dropped the phone and fled to the other side of the room, back facing Sherlock and forehead leaning against the wall. "Don't worry, he just passed out. I think he's fine." The detective picked the phone up and turned off the speaker and held it to his ear, did something he never done to an enemy before.

"Please..." he begged and and let his eyes fall shut. "Please Jim, I'm begging you. Let my son be."

"But we're just starting to have so much fun. Well, I am at least. I just wished your son could play fair."

"For god's sake, Jim." Sherlock growled and shook his head. "How can you call this fair?"

"We all have our own perspectives of fairness don't we, Mr Holmes. Consider that your son is leaving this game with bruises while I end it with my death."

"That is completely your choice, Mr Madman."

"Oh is it now?" Moriarty sang. "As I told you boy, I have the axe at my neck in many countries and towns. It hardly seems fair that I'm not allowed to have some fun before it strikes" Sherlock twitched and pursed his lips.

"Jim." he growled.

"This is my last wish, Holmes-boy. I rather not have you ruin it." the man interrupted and Sherlock held his breath. "Well... This was completely pointless. Your boy really sucked the fun out of it." Sherlock let his eyes fall closed and he curled his hand into a hard fist, felt his cuts ache and nails dig into his palms. "What did he tell you? Wait! Don't tell me! I like guessing games! Well... goodbye Mr Holmes. See you in a couple of hours."

The line was cut but Sherlock kept the phone to his ear, just hoping to hear something different while his son's screams lingered in his head. He had never heard his boy in such distress and much pain. But he tried to pass it aside, focusing on the clues Hamish had given him.

Brick house with a underground bunker. Abandoned since the eighties. Smell of ink and mould. Rusty pipes. Oh, his clever little boy. Clever little Hamish. He lowered the phone and opened his eyes, let his gaze fall upon his husband that stood hunched against the wall with a hand clamped over his mouth.

"I think our boy outwitted him." Sherlock murmured and felt a little thrilled that their boy had managed to fool his kidnapper. He'd learned well. John lifted his heavy head and stared at the detective with slim eyes, the hatred sparkling and nostrils flaring.

"Really Sherlock!?" he thundered. "That's all you got to say?" Sherlock just stared. "We just heard our son get brutally beat up and the first thing you can think of his of proud you are that Hamish managed to steal his phone!?"

"No, I..."

"God's sake, Sherlock! Did we even listen to the same call?" John hissed and bundled up his face to stop the tears.

"Why are you getting so upset? He just gave us what we needed!" Sherlock asked him calmly and took a step closer by John raised his hands and stopped him in mid step.

"No." he fumed and cleared his throat with an angry smile. "Don't take a step closer or I might just punch you." The detective watched in silence as his doctor covered his eyes with a trembling hand, trying to get a hold of himself once more, not letting himself fall into the ditch of pure panic and the breaths came in small whimpering whines. So Sherlock waited, kept a sharp eye on him and not letting himself reach out and touch him until he was back.

John let out a painful groan and his chest heaved with every heavy breath. Heart pounded behind his ribs and all he could see before him was his son, beaten and broken. He'd seen injured children before and knew the feeling of being unable to save one. His hands had been covered with more blood from kids than any human being should have and it would always haunt his dreams. He'd seen a family's pain in the loss of a son our daughter and also children's pain in loss of a parent.

So much death had been played out before his eyes but never, never had he been so scared of it as now. The reaper was standing around the corner, ready to knock at their door and take Hamish away from them and right now there was nothing he could do except thinking about the screams he'd heard from his phone.

And then there was Sherlock. Clever but idiotic Sherlock who spoke before he thought. The doctor had seen the thrill root in the detective as their boy had spewed out clues and information and that's when even John started to understand what a intelligent boy they'd raised. Any other child who'd made that call would have been calling for help, begged and cried, but Hamish, brave little Hamish had given them all he'd collected during his disappearance and for the first time John got a taste of what Sherlock really had contributed to the boy's upbringing. Even if the boy was under the threat of the deadliest man alive, their brave little boy knew that the most important thing his parents needed was information, and Hamish had broken not only rules but also himself to get it. Not only to save himself, but also to warn them.

But what did he mean that something was wrong with him?

He took a deep breath and lowered his hand, fluttered his eyes open and lifted his head. Before him was Sherlock, eyebrows furrowed together and arms limb at his sides, just observing. His Sherlock. The only man in the world who could actually save their boy even if he was a complete idiot, but John could look passed that stupidity because he knew that as long as Sherlock felt a thrill about something to solve, it would be solved quicker than anything. Sherlock couldn't be anything better than thrilled right now.

He stumbled into his arms and smashed them both together until he was sure they would become one and Sherlock wound his arms around him.

"You're a complete arse. You know that, don't you?" he sighed and buried his face to the nape of his neck.

"You never really stop telling me." Sherlock whispered and pressed his lips to his temple and sighed. The air disappeared between them and the only thing left to breath was each other. Sherlock's hands roamed the doctor's muscular back and caressed every part he could reach while John grabbed some of his curls. But there was a question forcing up from all the hate and anger against the kidnapper and it needed out. "John, can you just promise me something."

"What?" John cried and lifted straightened in his arms to look at him.

"That when we got our boy back, and I say when because there is no if in this situation, will you let me kill Jim? Can you promise you wont hold me back?"

"I will fucking help you." John scoffed under his breath and Sherlock gave him a weak smile with teared eyes, pulled him into a thankful kiss and held him there. Nothing romantic, only an appreciation of each other and the deep love they shared and would hold on to. Two big hands snaked into John's hair and Sherlock held his head put to stare into his blue eyes.

"I think our boy has developed something." he said softly and John locked his jaw and frowned. "That headache he suffered at the palace. I got the same one when I looked through a buss schedule at age six." He cursed under his breath and let his hand fall down on John's shoulders. "I can still list when the bussed leaves from Sussex to Cardiff minute to minute even if that schedule is more than thirty years old." He took a step back and started to ponder hard about this conundrum. What did Hamish mean exactly. "The next time it happened to me was when I looked at the London city-map. There's a reason I know every street and shortcut, that map is printed in my mind since I was eighteen and came here.

"Where are you getting at?" John asked and shook his head.

"Moriarty already know the way here, why would he need Hamish's help?" Sherlock continued without listening. Pieces started to fall together and the detective got more and more eager as everything started to make sense.  
"Oh." he beamed, completely drunk on the case he had to solve. "Mycroft, he must have shown Hamish... Oh god.." He dashed out of the room and John couldn't do much more than follow. As he reached the sitting room Sherlock tossed all the cups and dishes from the table to the floor, that smashed and scattered over the floor, and hurried over to the bookshelf and Greg twitched in the sofa and was pulled out of his sleep.

"Hamish! He said something was wrong with him. That he's not normal. He must have developed something different, something that scares him!" the detective continued and pulled out a map from between the books. "Moriarty needs to be invisible." Greg who'd just woken up stared at him in confusion as the detective unfolded the big city-map on the table.

"Wait! What?" John groaned and moved over to the table and Sherlock shot him a look, annoyed that no one understood him yet.

"Mycroft! He's controlling the town with cameras, security, the city is infected with it. Hamish! Hamish was with and left it with a headache, the same headache that I got when I was eighteen and saw the city-map for the first time. Mycroft must have shown him." The detective was on fire, quivering with excitement which quickly was replaced with disgust when his husband and friend didn't seem to understand him. "For god's sake! What are your heads for exactly?! How are you not getting this!"

"Sherlock!" John fumed and pulled his hair, not in the mood for getting disgraced. "Just tell us!" Sherlock groaned and reached for a big marker on the table, circled the three locations that Hamish had given them. Baker street, Mycroft's mansion and Greg's apartment building."

"Hey! Why are you marking my place?" Greg exclaimed without any idea what was going on and the doctor gave him a quick resumé of what'd just happen and the DI flailed his arms in the air when he heard about the phone call. "And you didn't wake me!? Bloody hell! Is he okay? What more did he say."

"Later." Sherlock warned and pointed at the map. "Listen! Mycroft must have shown Hamish his works, a map, a screen station, anything like that and it must have clicked." He snapped his fingers over his ear. "Every camera must have been printed into his mind. Every road, alley, street where the government can see you.. and he's using it!" A big sigh of amazement left him and he wobbled on his feet. Greg crossed his arm and cleared his throat, he did not like to see the detective in such ecstasy when it was Hamish they were talking about, but he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. "The night Hamish disappeared out of sight for us and Mycroft, he used the system."

John started to understand and felt goosebumps form on his skin. He got cold, afraid of his boy and rubbed a hand across his face. "He knows exactly where to walk, exactly where to step and can hide from the government itself. Oh!" Sherlock closed his eyes and clasped his hands together like an old lady. "Oh little Hamish. You brilliant thing!"

"So, you're saying that..." Greg began but didn't know how to finnish that sentence.

"Hamish can become invisible!" Sherlock beamed and bounced on his heals in pride and amazement, but John couldn't really share his optimism.

"And that's what Moriarty wants?" he asked and pierced his husband with a cold stare. "Hamish's invisibility."

"Yes!" Sherlock sang and looked at the map. "Way to move in London, to get to us without being seen." He pulled the cap on the marker and made four spots on the streets of Baker street. "This is as much as I know. There are cameras here, here and here. There must be some sort of blind spot. Something that Hamish used when he left the house."

"Mycroft saw him leave the house." John said while pressing two of his fingers to his mouth, voice breaking but not completely. "He disappeared a second later." Sherlock just nodded, continued to stare at the map but now on the edges, looking for apartment buildings that hadn't been inhabited since the eighties.

"Right, right." he hurried. "Call Mycroft. Tell him to come here. I need to scold him for showing Hamish his secrets and not me."

John locked his jaw to keep himself from being the one scolding a Holmes and rolled his eyes. As always Sherlock said all the wrong things. But he still called Mycroft, if someone knew the security system as well as Hamish right now it would be him and he picked up Sherlock's phone at the table.

"Wait! What about my street!?" Greg shouted and pointed with a sharp finger on the big circle. "If we're under the same threat as nine years ago I'm starting to get really worried. I do not want to go through the ruins of a bombed house to find my things." The DI leaned over the table to get the detective's attention. "Sherlock, there might be more lives at stake than just Hamish and you right now. Have you thought about that?"

Dot after dot appeared on the map, the detective tried to remember every camera he's passed since he moved to London but it wasn't many. Clearly not enough to make a map out of.

"Of course I have inspector." he muttered.

"And what are we planning to do about that? D'you think he we'll warn before it blows?" Sherlock looked up under thick eyelashes and sighed.

"I have no idea, inspector. But if you're gonna start prioritise people who are under no threat at the moment before my son, I want you to leave." Things that Greg didn't see, didn't really happen according to them both.

The detective straightened and crossed his arms, pursed his lips and swayed back and forth where he stood before taking a deep breath. Then he said something that made the detective smile. Not the cold acted smile he gave everyone else except John and Hamish, but a real one. The one that would John's knees go weak and the DI felt his own do the same.

"Where do we start?"

* * *

**Well well well, what did you think. Please, tell me. I'm dying to know!**


	18. The twist of lies

**Oh dear, I'm slightly nervous about this chapter. I don't know why but... I guess I don't know what reactions it will get. Just read and leave a review. I'm not going to say anything more about it. **

* * *

John called Mycroft and asked him to come over, realised that that was the first time he'd ever done that. They usually kept apart unless Holmes the older needed help or wanted information. The doctor couldn't deny the small hatred he felt for him now. Even if none of this was Mycroft's fault it was still him who'd put them here. First the warning about Jim's return that was for no use and then showing Hamish whatever it was that set of that headache. John didn't want to see him, but the man could really help them now.

Then the unthinkable happened. The Detective Inspector's phone rang three hours after Hamish's call and the yard told him the horrible news. Gas leak they said, but the three men at Baker Street knew perfectly well what really happened. They watched the breaking news in silence and John covered his eyes with a trembling hand and took a huge breath. Moriarty's first step in his plan was successfully completed and now there were only two left where he planned to strike.

Greg pulled his hair by the roots and groaned loudly as he watched the pictures of his apartment building in ruins. It was crumbled with only one wall still standing and the DI blew out all the air in his lungs.

"Forty-six confirmed dead. Seven people missing in the rubble." he groaned and looked over at Sherlock who'd been standing over the map for two hours straight together with his laptop. "Not a single warning." The detective didn't move a muscle, the only thing that mattered to him right now was the work, those people who'd just died was unimportant. "Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

He groaned and without lifting his gaze he muttered "There's nothing I can do about it, Lestrade."

John took a huge breath and turned his back to the telly and took a walk out to the kitchen to calm his nerves with a glass of cold water. Did Hamish know about the lives he'd sacrificed by giving Moriarty the map? Jim was a real devil if that was the case. He found himself staring at the running water with the glass in his hand, furious that he couldn't leave the flat. All he wanted was to run through London, search every house that had been abandoned since the eighties, comb every place that smelled like ink and mould just to find his little boy. But here he was, trapped in his own home with a death threat if he tried to leave. And now Greg's damn house was ruined.

Before he new it the DI entered the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets, he knew this room like his back pocket and found the bottle of whiskey as easy as Sherlock could read a mans life from his shirtsleeve. No one stopped him when he filled a glass and swallowed the drink all at once before filling it a second time. That man had just lost his home for gods sake.

Greg rubbed a hand across his face and smothered a nervous laugh and turned to John with tears glistening in his eyes, still not quite understanding what had just happened.

"All my fucking Status Quo albums." he quaked. "My dad started that collection." He took another sip and cleared his throat that started to swell by his tensing muscles. "That was my first thought, you know. Not that all my neighbours just got blown to pieces. No, the first thing that comes to my mind is how long it took for my old man to stand in line to get Francis Rossis fucking autograph on that album that's now completely bombed to shit." A long moan left him while he smiled like an idiot and he stared down in his drink as he swayed the glass. "I'm not materialistic, but that record and all the other ones.. Those were my dad's life. That man lived for that band and left his whole collection of records to me in his will and... It's all gone."

John turned off the tap and held out his glass to his friend, ready to join him and share the misery. "Fill me up."

They collapsed on each side of the table, left Sherlock to his work in the sitting room and Greg told him about all the things he'd just lost. His friend needed to lighten his heart, and John just thought it felt good to feel sorry for someone else for a second. Even if he'd visited Greg many times that man had lots of treasures in his home that John had never noticed. Those records wasn't the only thing his old man had left behind for him. There were photo albums reaching all the way back to his grandparents childhoods that he would never see again, a quilt his mother was given as a wedding present and then he told John something he didn't even knew. The man nearly broke when he started to talk about the box in the closet but he managed to keep himself from crying, John had never seen his friend fight feelings like this.

"She would have been fifteen today, my little girl." he sighed and the doctor stiffened in his seat, swallowed the sip of whiskey and stared at his friend like he didn't really believe what he'd just heard. "She was diagnosed with lung cancer at age six." He laughed nervously again and lowered his head. "Six, John. She died a month before she turned seven. Me and Tess we... managed to keep our relationship going but just the sight of each other reminded us of Alice until we couldn't take it anymore." The last of the whiskey poured down his throat before he filled his glass again. "There's a box in my closet. It contains almost all of her toys and the only photos there is of her." The room fell silent, all air had been sucked out and Greg swallowed a weak whimper that threatened to escape. John tried to find the right words but there was only one thing he could say.

"Jesus christ..." he breathed and saw Greg swallow the whole glass before standing up, shaking his head with that devastated smile still on his lips.

"I'm sorry, I..." Greg stroke his fingers through his hairs and took a deep breath. "I shouldn't.. You've got enough problems at the moment. I'll leave." Before John had anything to say about it his friend dashed out in the sitting room but the doctor was quickly after him. He couldn't leave in this state, who knew what would come to his mind. Worst of all, John had seen people like this before, he knew what they were capable of.

"Greg, please!" he called and saw the man collect his belongings from the couch. Greg turned to him, still that smile on his lips that made John want to crawl out of his skin .

"Sorry." he trembled. "But.. I need to go there. I might still be able to save something. Just... something and how much I would even like you to come..." While flinging one arm to the room he uttered a nervous laugh, clearly feeling like a high class arse. "You're pretty much stuck... I'm sorry, but.."

"No." John interrupted and shook his head. "I understand, just.. take care of yourself and.."

He was out of words, a part of him just wanted to fling his arms around the man and hold him hard and bring him some comfort. Greg hadn't just lost a home, he'd lost every memory he had of his little girl and passed family and for the last twenty-four hours he'd been sitting here worrying for his nephew. John couldn't imagine the thought and feelings ripping and tearing through the poor man or the physical damage it was about to do on him as well. The poor sod was trembling, nearly shaking uncontrollably and he'd never had such a hard time getting his coat on.

"The yard is still looking. I gave them the new information and told them not to even look anywhere in the direction to Moriarty's destinations. We... we need to be cautious, right?" He laughed at the last part and tied his scarf. "So there won't be another... boom."

Then he stood still on the carpet, fully dressed and ready to head out in the cold weather, but he didn't move. Just stared at his gloved hands and blinked in exhaustion and John took a step closer.

"You can sleep here tonight." he said with a calm smile, just anything to show that he cared for him as much as he cared for them. "If you find anything just.. bring it here, alright."  
"No, I can't.." he sighed and shook his head but clearly happy about the invitation but he knew how Sherlock felt about nigh guests. But the detective was about to prove him wrong.

"It wasn't a question." he murmured from his corner, now tapping away on his computer and both the doctor and the DI felt the small spark of hope being relit for Sherlock's humanity. Those words were exactly what they both needed to hear and Greg gave him a weak smile, a happy one this time.

"Thank you." he sighed. "Both of you."

He dashed out the door before anyone said anything more and the doctor closed his eyes for a moment more, just feeling the alcohol stream through his blood and calm his nerves again. But he still couldn't let go of the fact that Greg once had a daughter. That girl passed when she was one year younger than Hamish today and John couldn't imagine what sorrow went through his friend at the moment. No wonder that man had such a strong connection to their son. John should have noticed something.

He padded over the floor until he reached the table and he opened his eyes again, saw Sherlock hunched over the computer and making small noises as he pondered.

"Did you know about his daughter?" John asked in a murmur and Sherlock tore his eyes of the screen for a small second.

"Yes." he answered and tapped away again. John nodded and flicked his finger over the edge of the map.

"Did he tell you?"

"No."

Deductions then, Sherlock had figured it out on his own. So that's why Sherlock had such trust in Greg when it came to Hamish. That man loved Hamish more than just a nephew, he was the child he never got to keep.

Suddenly Sherlock let out a loud groan and tossed his head back as he thought of something important. "Of course! Stupid!" he yelled and John jumped in fright. The tapping got louder and faster as Sherlock typed with a wide smile but John never had the time to ask him what was going on before the phone rang. The screen blinked fanatically and Mycroft's name was presented with a ridiculous picture that Hamish had chosen which usually made John laugh, but not today.

"Yes."

"John, there's no one watching you." Mycroft's voice said loudly and John furrowed.

"What?"

"I've got him!" Sherlock shouted and turned the computer. "There! The old newspaper printers. It's built in a modernised apartment building abandoned since the eighties." The detective absolutely beamed and he reached out his hand. "Let me speak to my brother!" But John stiffened and stared at the map on the screen. That 3D picture was possibly showing the exact location of their son. Hamish might just be in the bottom of that building. Sherlock had found it with just two little clues, that brilliant man.

The detective pulled the phone out of his hand, smile forgotten now when the case was possibly solved and once again directing his thought to his little boy.

"Mycroft. I've got him. I know where Hamish is." But the brother didn't take the new with as much as importance as Sherlock.

"Little brother, you need to listen." Mycroft said with the calmest voice there was. "I've had my agents search through every building and street from Baker Street and two blocks down in every direction. There are no spies, no snipers. Not a single bug is watching you."

The detective held his breath and stared blindly into nothingness, listened carefully to every little noise in the phone and waited for Mycroft to continue.

"Moriarty wanted us to feel outnumbered. It's all lies, Sherlock."

He turned to John, stared him directly in his blue eyes and lingered for many seconds. Hatred was bubbling inside him, hotter than ever before and he felt his teeth crack as he clenched his jaw painfully. What kind of a sick twist was this. Moriarty had them both trapped under lies, he was a false criminal.

"Mycroft." he growled with a dark voice that rumbled deep down in his lungs. "You need to come here. We're ending this together." And the brother chuckled like an evil maniac on the other side.

"I'm with you, little brother."

Sherlock handed the phone over to his husband that was beside himself where he stood, to overwhelmed by the words he'd overheard from the two Holmes brothers.

"John, I need you to listen to me and listen carefully." Sherlock started and John took a deep breath through his nose. "You may leave." The doctor tilted his head to the side, feeling more anger than he'd done in ages because he knew what Sherlock was talking about and he was ready to do exactly what he was going to ask him. "You need to get Hamish. I'll stay here and wait. The moment Jim enters this house I'll be there ready to break him into pieces."

John found himself in military position, back straight, head held high and ready to die under order and he answered Sherlock with a slight nod, ready to move out. There was only one thing though, only one thought that kept him trapped on the carped with his stare buried into his husband, the memory of what happened last time Sherlock confronted the man. He didn't want to leave Sherlock for his death. But before he was able to say anything Sherlock cupped his shoulders and bent into his eye level.

"We've got him, John." he said with a small ounce of relief in his voice. "I'm not letting him slip away, and I'm not on my own this time. Mycroft is coming. Not for me but for you. I know you don't want me alone with Moriarty and I'm not going to be. This is nothing like the last time."

That was all John needed to hear to fall into Sherlock strong embrace and they held each other tight, silently praying to any higher power that this wasn't the last time they saw each other. But both of them had their rolls to play in this game and Moriarty hadn't played fair. Now when his cheating was caught they couldn't finally play by equal rules and John felt such a relief now when he could do just what he wanted to. He could search, and he knew exactly where to go.

"Be careful." he pleaded and smelled the sent of pine and oils in the nape of Sherlock's neck. "This isn't home if you're not here." That wasn't an empty statement, John new exactly how 221B felt like without Sherlock and it wasn't home, it was just a place where one lived, nothing more.

"I won't let him win." Sherlock whispered back with his lips tickling John's ear. "I'll be at the hospital when you get there. I promise." A promise from Sherlock would always be written in stone and John could take a deep breath when he heard those words. "Good?" his husband asked.

"Vey good." John replied with a small laugh and lifted his head to meet those blue-green eyes that he'd missed in the pale colours that had overpowered them so long. "Don't do anything foolish. You or Mycroft."

"That's something I can't promise." Sherlock chuckled and pressed his lips to his. "But the same applies to you. Bring your gun." Joh chuckled and realised that this was Sherlock's way of asking him to be careful in return. John would probably not get far without his weapon.

"I'm not leaving without it."

* * *

The bed was swaying, right? Or was someone rocking him? Was he sick? Hurt maybe? At the moment he couldn't remember squat. Every thought and memory was just a big silly blur and nothing made any sense what so ever. Except two thing, it was cold as hell and he couldn't move. Every time he tried to lift a finger or wiggle a toe his vessel didn't listen, just laid there, wherever it was, useless and stiff. Not even his eyes worked anymore. Or was it just his lids that decided not to open?

He tried to call out for help but there was no voice left in him to make a sound. Not even the breaths wanted to enter him properly and he collected the small ounce of bravery still left in him to prevent the shock, because something inside him told him that was coming.

Something cold was dripping on his forehead and he twitched for each drop. It was torture, he couldn't move away from it or remember where he was and ever so slowly a dull pain rooted in his limbs, head and stomach. Ever so slowly it became intrusive and he sailed out of the world between sleep and consciousness into the terrible reality again. The red walls burned around him, swayed back and forth and the pipes in the roof was moving and webbing together until Hamish wasn't sure if he was in a waken state or not. But one thing was certain, his stomach was upset.

His head lolled to the side and as he tried to take a breath to calm his insides as ribs tore through him like broken glass and a weak whimper left his sore throat together with water and sour acids. The liquids stuck to his cheek that was buried in the mattress but he didn't have the sanity or energy to care. This wasn't even real, right?

He blinked and tried to lift his heavy head to get a quick look of his body. Clothes were soaked with contaminated water and crimson blood, stained with dirt and there was a clear footprint on his jeans. He'd been stepped on. Then he turned to his bruised arm and saw something that wasn't there before. Spots. A fierce rash that reached all the way up to his shoulder out of sight under his chin and he let his head fall back on the mattress to ponder about the different sicknesses he'd stumbled upon his his father's medical books until he came to one conclusion.

Fat embolism. And he knew all the symptoms to come. Bone marrow was leaking into his blood, killing off his white blood cells and soon he would have a hard time to breath, become delirious and if this continued there was a great change of sudden cardiac arrest. Sudden death.

For once Hamish wished he was as unintelligent as his classmates. How nice it would be not to know what was going on for once. He wished that he could look at that rash and just see it as a rash, not the deadly decease that it was. Someone needed to find him soon and pull that arm back into place. He was to weak and to scared to do it himself.

Then everything came back to him like he'd been hit by a train. Every small piece of information puzzled together until he remembered every little thing and he closed his eyes in pure exhaustion of it all. He just wanted to go home.

There was a loud clonk and a creek and Hamish felt the fear spread in him. He wanted to hide, crawl close to the wall but he still couldn't move. There were footsteps again. Closer and closer and he screwed his eyes shut, whimpered as he tried to move. Someone place a warm hand on his forehead and he made himself ready to faint so he wouldn't feel the pain that was coming.

"Hamish?"

That was not the voice of the villain, but he knew it. Ever so carefully he opened his eyes again and meet the dark brown eyes and blond hair, this face scared him even more and his muscles came back to life with a painful jerk.

"Hey, hey. Listen, I'm gonna get you out, I promise." But Hamish didn't fall for his lies anymore. A loud whine left him as he squirmed to get away but Sebastian hushed him gently and covered him with the cold blanket. "Hamish, don't move. You'll only hurt yourself. And be quiet, someone will hear us." But the boy was ready to defend himself even if it would cost him the last ounce of energy that kept him alive. That man meant nothing but trouble so he kicked and flailed his healthy arm, clawed and spat but Sebastian wouldn't let go.

"Hamish." he whispered and clamped a hand over his mouth, closed in on him until he was clear in the boy's blurry vision. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry I put you into this. I never..." He took a deep breath and stroke his hair, a wrinkle formed between his brows and he looked sad, regretful. "I didn't think he would be so brutal on you. I'm sorry. But I'm here to help you. Please, let me help you." But the boy squirmed, unable to tell if the young man was lying or not, head to fuzzy to make any sorts of decisions right now and he hoped that the thick goo on his right cheek would stick to Sebastian's hands and clothes. Every part of him hated this man, he wanted nothing to do with him, but apparently Sebastian wouldn't be so easy to get rid of. Those friendly touches by a hand was something that Hamish's body had missed. Those fingers were tickling his scalp and the dark eyes looked just as friendly as the first time he'd met him, not as cold and evil as the villain's.

But he didn't manage to ponder about all that for long, consciousness was hard to hold on to and he closed his mouth under the hand keeping him quiet, fluttered his eyes as he tried to keep them open to concentrate on Sebastian. Every moved he made could be deadly. and Hamish was not dying today.

"I am getting you out." Sebastian repeated and wound him carefully in the blanket, avoided the arm the best he could and gathered the small boy in his arms. Once again Hamish felt the smell of motor oil and cigarets and he cried silently. This was the last man he wanted to see, and maybe that was the case. Sebastian brought nothing but hurt and pain and the small boy closed his eyes to part himself from the world, let it pass unnoticed, let the man take him wherever he wanted. He didn't really have the energy or life left in him to protest anymore. Hell, he couldn't even breath properly anymore. This vessel of his was useless.

But there was a clonk and creak, and Hamish opened his teared eyes again, saw the yellow light of the lamps in the long corridor and hated everything about it, he hated the man carrying him, he hated the walls and pipes and dust and smell of this place. Sebastian could be taking him anywhere and it would still be better than this. He could be taking him to his bloody grave if he wanted to, he didn't really care anymore.

* * *

**So, have I killed anyone with emotions? let me know. Aaaaah, all these things going on, I'm sorry!**

**Just so you know I've got a Beta now so all my errors are being corrected, so if there's anything in this chapter bugging you it is being fixed by my lovely Lunalovely97. **


	19. What are you doing, Sherlock?

**So here we are again. Another chapter and more of the horrible angst which seems to be the only thing I give in these times. **

**Warnings: More mentioning of suicide. Blood and wounds. **

* * *

To get a car in this bad weather and end of working hours was a nightmare from hell. Every cab went passed him, either occupied or booked and he felt like a complete maniac as he ran after them shouting and screaming. If only one, one kind driver could understand why he needed them so badly. This was the matter of life or death and he realised what he had to do. He picked up the phone next to the gun that rested in his pocket against his hip, he'd honestly missed the weight of the weapon and couldn't get passed the small excitement of carrying it again.

The phone connected and he listened over the sound of traffic after his friend who could honestly help them more than anyone right now. Maybe it was a lost call, after all Greg was going through a lot at the moment but John hoped that this lead might bring the DI some new hope.

"Yes?" Of course he answered after only two signals. Even he knew that any call from John right now was to give him new information and not to check in on him, the doctor released a huge breath and almost toppled where he stood waving at cabs.

"Sherlock found him, Greg!" he shouted and blinked away the thick snow flakes that clung to his lashes. "That god damn smell of ink! He's at the newspaper print!" There wasn't a second to loose and John heard the his friend gasp and the tires shrieking on the other side of the phone.

"I'm going there now. Are you out of the house? What the hell are you doing?"

"I don't know!" John shouted honestly and stomped the ground as another cab passed him. "Mycroft... you know.. Just... Get there Greg, find him. I'll be right behind the moment I find a cab."

"Do we need backup?"

A whimper left the doctor as he heard those words, memories pulling him back twelve years in time and he quickly flickered over the area where he was standing, checking for hide outs, enemies, open fields. His head was completely collapsing and unable to focus on his task.

"John!?" Greg shouted and John was pulled out of it before he could feel the blazing heat of the desert sun and taste the sand in his tongue.  
"I-I don't know! Mycroft said there aren't any spies or snipers. He believes he just wants us to feel outnumbered. I'm starting to believe he's on his own." A cab finally stopped for him and he tossed himself into the backseat, shouted the address before returning to his call. "But be careful! I'll meet you there." He hung up before an other word was able to be spoken and leaned back in the seat, breathing shallowly and rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to lower his pulse.

* * *

Sherlock watched John stumble into the back of a cab from his violin window and with a loud sigh he saw it disappear into the distance of a wild wind of snowflakes. He silently told himself that this would not be the last time, this would not be the end of them and the next time the saw each other Hamish would be in their possession again. Telling himself was the least he could do.

He spun on his heal and faced the sitting room, gazed upon the two armchairs facing each other and was haunted by the old memory and the smell of tea and gunpowder. As he closed his eyes he couldn't escape the dark eyes that once had been drilled deep into his head, solving him like a rubrik's cube and beaten him in more than one way.

He couldn't tell if it was terror or the sweet desire for revenge that made his skin prickle, but he couldn't deny that he was scared. Not for himself but for Hamish. If they all came out of this alive what life did they have to go back to? He'd seen John's condition take a turn for the worse many times in his life and he feared that Hamish might have caught the same sickness by now. Sherlock knew that this would change his little boy. It would not give him courage or more knowledge, only pain and nightmares, his head would be filled with bad memories and feelings. The brave little boy with, fortunately, John's sense of humour might not be the same after this.

The detective turned to the bedroom, stepped out of his one-day-old suit that was stained with blood and chemicals and opened the doors to his closet. It was time to pick a suit worthy for battle. Something that would mirror him perfectly at a scene like this. He didn't pay as much as a glance to the white shirts. White meant mercy and none of that would be shown this day or be asked for. With a breath that filled his lungs to the brink of explosion he reached for black, nothing seemed more fitting.

He dressed in silence, listened to the small sounds of their living flat. Creeks and cracks, pipes droning, the radiators wheeze and the wind whistling. The sound of home, something he would never give up to the villain who was making his way here.

The shirt was buttoned all the way up to his neck and he pulled the jacket over his shoulders, buttoned it properly and straightened it by his hips before brushing the arms. Time to pick a weapon. Moriarty was as much as beaten already, there was no bigger need for precautions. Death was coming for the man, there was no point in dragging it out any further.

What would be a nice way of dying?

The detective turned to the transparent door of the bathroom and blinked. In one of the cabinets John had hidden his medical bag. And it was filled to the brim with chemical goodness that Sherlock wasn't allowed to touch. That had never stopped him before. How hard could it be to pick the lock anyway? The coat was hanging over the bedroom door and in the inner pocket was his kit for lock picking. He might as well give it a try.

It was more than easy and moment the cabinet opened he broke one of the promises he's made John. He gazed with a evil smirk at the bottles and their labels, felt the shiver travels his spine in joy as he understood what his husband was really doing at his work. He was doing more than just stitching wounds and curing stomach bugs.

"Kills quickly but keeps the blood warm." he mumbled to himself as he stared at the bottle of opium. But he quickly changed his mind as he could see the scenery death in front of him and put it back with a groan. "Boring." He searched deeper into John's secrets and saw packages of gauze, splints, plasters and more dull things when it came to treating wounds. Nothing in here seemed usable except poisons, and what good was poisons if he could feel the life leave but only see.

Then he saw the green metal box at the bottom. He knew that box. Oh, there were a lot of beautiful things in there. Fun things. Dangerous things. He brought it down to the counter and heard the rattling of metal and plastic. John's old surgery box from the war, but in Sherlock's mind tools for torture. He smiled as he lifted the scalpel and watched his own reflection in the blade. If Moriarty wanted to die Sherlock would make sure he would regret it during the procedure. Dying was easy. Suffer, not so much.

He chuckled and looked down in the box again, scissors, tongs, clippers. Sherlock felt like a child in a toy shop. So many games he would be able to play. Maybe he should warn Mrs. Hudson incase she decided to explore the screams on anguish that would spew out from this flat.

Then he felt an familiar presence and he packed up the kit and took a deep breath. Shoe polish, expensive detergents, pricy cologne and wax. The detective sighed loudly and turned to the door to see the well-dressed man with his umbrella clutched tightly in his hand. "You're here early."

Mycroft took a deep breath and stared at the box in his hands, then at the bottles in the cabinet and lastly at Sherlock. His blue eyes drilled deep into his little brother to find any signs that could lead to his worry.

"What are you planning, brother?" he asked and unbuttoned his jacket with his free hand. Sherlock gave him a crocked smile and put the box under his arm.  
"You either join me, or you walk back the way you came." he said calmly and stared at his brother without blinking. "Jim wants to die and I'm going to make that come true." Holmes the other huffed a small laugh and stepped into the bathroom, wrapped his hand around the box and pulled his free.

"One of us in here has the licence to kill." he said with his dragging voice and Sherlock didn't mind when his tools of torture left his side, he had other ways to kill a man. "If you want that mans blood on your hands I'm not here to stop you. But I ask you, Sherlock, is it worth it to have Jim's death on your conscience when I can be the one to take the blame?" The detective slimmed his eyes and watched with contempt. "I'm not here to stop you." Mycroft repeated. "Only to ease the pain of killing."

"D'you really think I would be bothered by taking another mans life?" Sherlock asked darkly and curled up his hands to hard fists.

"I don't know." his brother answered. "But sometimes it's better never to find out."

* * *

Greg pulled his car up in the shadow of the tall building. The rest of the parking lot was empty except one old Golf close to the surrounding bushes and he wondered if it belonged to someone he might just beat the shit out of today. He would gladly find a reason for that. The rubble and all his possessions could wait for ages, more important now was Hamish.

He opened the trunk of his car and located the stored browning in many layers of a towel. Just like John he hadn't used it for years, hadn't really had a reason for it since Moriarty and his men got cleared of the streets. He found the ammo behind it and he loaded it with skilled hands, after all the training sessions it was printed in his mind how to handle a gun with care. Then he hid it in the pocket of his coat, felt the weight of his resting against his hip, he didn't like the feel of it. Blood was rushing through his veins, heart drumming like a marching band behind his ribs in fright and stupidity. He should have called the yard, only a very brave or big idiot would go to war by himself without knowing what he was going to face. But Hamish needed him, and the differenced between his need and Alice's need all those years ago was that this time Greg could actually do something.

It was a saturday evening and the printers had been closer since yesterday. There must be another way in than the front door since no alarm had gone of any of the night this week. Or maybe Jim knew somebody who'd given him a key. That didn't matter now, Greg just needed to get in there and no alarms would stop the copper. What would it do it he set them off except bringing him more coppers?

He stumbled around the back of the building, fighting snow covered bushes and ice spots, stepping in deep ditch filled with grey and brown snow when he finally laid his eyes upon a back door. A small one made in thick steel and he looked around. It seemed to be clear but he held on tight to his gun. Just in case, he told himself. Just in case. Then he placed his hand upon the handle, so cold it burned his palm and he pushed it down, not knowing what would be waiting for him as he stepped inside. But the door opened without any further forces than just a shove and he stared into a long corridor painted in pale yellow and white. He had no idea where it might lead, but he hoped to the end of all this. He picked up his phone and sent a simple message to John.

**Backdoor unlocked. No contact in 10, assume something's wrong. GL **

Then he took his first step inside and made sure that the door didn't lock itself as he closed it. He didn't need to be locked in in this place right now. The phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at the blinking screen.

**Be careful. And don't do anything stupid. Take care of Hamish if you find him. JW**

Stupidity was more obliged than a choice at this moment, Greg thought as he got to a crossroad at the end of the corridor. Left or right? Neither did he want to go the wrong direction and he questioned himself something he would never confess to anyone. 'What would Sherlock do?'

To hell with Sherlock, he sighed as both roads looked just the same. Lets go on hunches. He turned left and followed the trail of pipes and red-stained floors from the rust. The did indeed smell like ink and mould, he must be in the right house. He prayed he was in the right house.

There was another turn and he stumbled on something, just managing to keep himself from falling by grabbing on to one of the pipes. As he looked down he saw something he did you quite expect. A woman, her blond hair in a high pony tail, in her late forties and throat cleaned cut. She couldn't have seen it coming, Greg couldn't see any signs of struggle but the expression of shock was frozen on her face.

The DI grasped his browning a whole lot tighter. Someone was or had been here. But for what reason exactly. Was Moriarty keeping more people down here or were there others that wanted to save Hamish? In that case who? He turned to the corridor again and took a deep, calming breath. This wasn't the time to get panicked, he told himself and continued when he suddenly heard dragging footsteps. Slow scraping steps and a voice murmuring soft words he could not for the life of him figure out. Silently he pulled to gun out of his pocket, undid the safety and held it tight, then he waited.

Around the corner a young man appeared, blond hair in his early twenties and he was carrying something. Something wrapped in a blanket and Greg saw the strands of dark hair sticking out at the upper end. A chill like ice water travelled down his spine and before he even notice something he was raising his gun, pointing the barrel to the forehead of the young man in front of him.

"Put. The boy. Down." he spelled out carefully so the man wouldn't miss a single ounce of hatred and threat Greg was bringing. The young man broke his gaze with the cocoon he was carrying and locked eyes with the copper. He looked tired, ready to get this over with and without a single word he sank to his knees and placed the boy on the floor. "Step back." Greg ordered him and let his finger caress the trigger. Just in case.

The man stood back up and while watching the boy he took a few steps back, he was co-operating as much as he could and Greg was surprised how easy this turned out to be. Something didn't seem right.

"Who are you?" he asked and walked over to the bundle on the floor, not breaking gaze with the young man who was clenching his hands. "What are you doing here?"

"I am Sebastian the substitute." the man answered and Greg stopped in mid step. "And I am here to correct my mistake."

"What mistake?" Greg belted and followed the line of the barrel, clearly spotting where the bullet would hit if he would fire. Any move this man made might just be his last. With a loud sigh Sebastian lowered his head, closed his teared eyes and collected the small amount of sanity left in him.

"Putting him here." he answered and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "I never..."

"Oh, do shut up." Greg growled in anger and slimmed his eyes. "D'you want to correct your mistakes? Here!" He tossed a pair of handcuffs over the floor and it landed before Sebastian's converse. "Cuff yourself to any pipe you want. No funny business, alright? Or I will fire before you even got the time to blink." Greg didn't have the time or energy to be nice to that man. The things he'd done to Hamish was unforgivable, Greg had never wanted to pull the trigger so much before but he managed to stop his finger. He was not the cruel one, Sebastian was.

The man picked up the cuffs without a single word and locked it around his left hand. Then he turned to the pipes and locked it around the one closest to the floor while Greg watched him with piercing brown eyes. "Empty your pockets."

A small knife, a packet of gums, and a lighter fell to the floor and to the DI's satisfaction he turned his pockets inside out, turned his jacked and pulled up his shirt just to show him that he wasn't armed and Greg thanked him with a slight nod.

Then he just dropped it all, his gun clattered against the stone floor and he hurried to the small bundle and landed on his knees. A small whimper fled his lips as he saw the bruised face. Left eye purple and swollen with a wounded brow, nose cracked, lips chapped and split.

"Oh, Hamish." he sighed and stroke a hand through the hair soaked in dirty water. But Greg could tell the face was only a small fraction of what had been wounded. He unfolded the wet blanked and saw the swollen arm and rash, the hand with cracked nails and bruised knuckles, the bruised on his showing skin and Greg didn't even want to imagine what would be hiding underneath his clothes. All this because for Moriarty's way of having a fun suicide.

The world darkened around him and all in his mind right now was Hamish. Poor little Hamish and he cradled his head to his chest and took a deep breath, unknowing of what to do now. He had him. The boy was finally in the right hands again and safe, but how much was really left of him.

"Hamish?" he murmured and rocked back and forth, feeling his heart clench painfully and his throat thicken. "C'mon Hay. Say something."

"He's unconscious." Sebastian mumbled from where he was sitting and the anger blossomed quickly in Greg's guts.

"**Don't you say another word!**" he boomed and felt how spark was about to shoot out his eyes and fingertips. Than man had lost his privilege to speak a long time ago and another word from him brought Greg a little closer to the decision of killing him.

But as the boy heard the loud voice he twitched in Greg's arms, drew a huge breath and then screamed out in pain and fear, wriggled around in the tight blanket and the DI started to panic.

"Hamish!" he called and held him close as those blue-green eyes stared into nothingness and the tired scream continued to echo through the long corridors. "Calm down! I've got you. I'm here Hamish!" The boy moaned and grunted as he tried to break free from his grip and Greg had to put him down in the floor again before he hurt himself. "Hamish!" He cupped his face and tried to make contact. "It's Greg! Look!" The boy trashed on the floor and then it took a frightening turn. Blood started to pour from his nose in an alarming rate and the DI felt himself tremble in shock, he needed to calm the boy down. "**Hamish!**" With a loud gasp the boy locked eyes with him and the screaming stopped. The blue-green eyes stared at him, blinked in confusion. "It's me." he whispered and stroke his hair. "It's Greg." His voice broke and tears started to fall down his cheeks as he did his best to comfort his nephew. "I've got you."

* * *

Those brown eyes was pinning him hard to reality and he'd never been so frightened. Silvery hair was blinding him in the yellow gloom and he blinked to understand who this was. Was it someone new that was here to hurt him? Another mercenary perhaps who's been payed to make awful things to him? But the he heard a name that for once didn't bring him pain.

"It's Greg." the man said and stroke a warm hand through his hair. "I've got you." And at that moment it had never been so important to stay alert. He threw out his heathy arm and grabbed hold of his uncle's coat, held on with everything he'd got and whimpered.

"Get me out." he pleaded with a disgustingly weak voice and he was picked up from the hard floor, disappeared into the wonderful smells of Greg's aftershave, the distant scent of nighttime London and then the significant smell that only he had. And Hamish took deep breaths, nuzzled as close he possibly could the man's chest and would never let go. "Get me out."

* * *

**There we go. But keep in mind that this is far from over. The spider is still making his way to Baker Street. **

**Leave a review, they'll always make me happy! **


	20. Demolition

**Here we are again. A new angsty chapter at closer to the end. Hope you'll enjoy.**

**Warning: Mentions of drug use, near death experience, angst.**

* * *

Backdoor unlocked, the message read and John clutched his phone with white knuckles and a sweaty palm. Seven minutes had passed as the taxi drove in on the parking lot outside the tall building and he saw Greg's car parked in the shadow by the wall. He tossed a couple of quid at the driver before running out the door, forgetting to close it and continued round the corner. Many bushes and deep ditched was slowing his path, failing his balance and he slipped and flailed on the many ice patches when he finally saw the door. His vision turned into a dark tunnel with only his destination in sight and all the nosies of cars and the cold succumbed beneath the need to get in there, to find his boy.

It was unlocked, just as Greg had told him and he grasped his weapon in his pocket, caressed the safety and went inside with his head full of something that resembled hope But he didn't make it far until the white shine of the snow lightened the pale face and grey hair of his friend. John just stared for what seemed like minutes, saw the blood was staining his beige raincoat and in his arms the most precious thing rested, trapped in a broken and tainted vessel swaddled in something that once had been a blanket. The boy was shaking violently, breaths wheezing in his tight throat and John fell in some sort of trance as he reached out his arms.

The weight of the boy had never felt so comfortable in his arms but yet so heavy. His knees buckled and he stumbled down to the cold floor and just stared at the familiar face underneath all the blood and filth. Teeth was shattering, his whole body trembling in cold, shock or maybe both and John found himself without knowledge how to take care of this. His military nerves had left him the moment he saw his son and he couldn't find it again. Even his medical knowledge escaped his head, he could just not be Hamish's doctor right now, it didn't work. He needed to be his father.

"Hamish." he quaked and brushed his dark hair from his forehead, felt the tears tickle down his own face and how his body began to tremble as everything overwhelmed him. "Please Hamish, look at me." Greg's words was passing right by him as he continued to take care his little son, patting his cheek, playing with his hair and rubbing his chest. "C'mon love. Wake up. Please." Tears was fogging his eyes and he made an effort to wipe them with his shoulder while still observing the boy. Blood was still streaming from his nose and he pulled his scarf off his neck to stop it. He wiped his nose and rocked his gently in his arms, held him so close he was about to melt together with him and he prayed that he could take over the pain he was feeling. A small child like this didn't deserve to go through this kinds of physical wounds, it wasn't human and John cursed under his breath. He knew what was hiding under the swaddled blanket, he just didn't want to see it yet. A broken arm left untreated this long could bring more problems than just a snapped bone.

Then he swallowed the worst of his fears and unfolded the wet cloth. The rash forced a whimper passed his lips and he sobbed by the sight of the blue and purple swell that was the size of a thigh.

"Oh god." he whimpered and bundled up his face as tears continued to fall and fear found its way back up. "Oh Hamish..." He cradled his head and pressed a long, shaking kiss to his forehead and tried to smother the sounds escaping him. "It's gonna be alright." he murmured, more to himself than to his unconscious son. "It's gonna be fine."

Then out of nowhere paramedics and officers crowded the small corridor and Greg urged the delusional doctor on his feet. He heard himself yell and fume as someone tried to take Hamish from him but he couldn't remember the words and the younger woman backed away with her grey eyes firmly locked on him.

"Sir! I need you to cooperate with us or your son will be the one to suffer from it." she said strictly and just like pressing a button John was back amongst them. His clouded vision and tunnel left and he noticed himself standing in the sunlight with Hamish cradled tightly to his chest. Cold was creeping in fast, reminding him of the weather that brought nothing but bad things to the already ruined body.

"I'm a doctor." he hissed and gnashed his teeth as he started to understand that he might not be able to travel in the ambulance with them. "You're not taking him without me." The woman's shoulders sunk several inches in relief as he heard those words and a deep sigh was uttered.

"Of course." she said as she tilted her head and put a hand on his shoulder. "He needs you more than anyone right now."

John nearly cried by those word and huffed gladly. Maybe he wouldn't be able to treat him but at least he was allowed to be there and hold his little hand during the process of their care. That was all he needed right now. For gods sake, he had just been handed the boy there was no way he was letting him out of sight now. The woman led him to the ambulance with her hand steady on his shoulder and John didn't break sight with his son. For each second he made sure that his chest was rising and falling, that his lips didn't turn blue and that blood didn't began to flood once more from his nose.

With heavy steps he climbed into the back of the ambulance and carefully placed him on the stretcher. After that he knew the drill and he didn't know how to prepare himself. He placed himself behind Hamish's head, kept two firm hands around his temples and massaged him gently as the two paramedics prepared him before they took off. They discarded the blanked and put it in the bin and John saw the deformed body before him. The hand was swapped with rubbing alcohol before they punctured him with needles and hung an IV in the roof. Then they brought out the scissors and John didn't know if he should sit down for this. The blades cut into his second favourite shirt with the print of Einstein and they uncovered his chest. John whimpered but manage to keep balance on wobbling knees. He was black and blue, no wonder he was wheezing with all those broken ribs, he even got a bruise former as the heel of a boot on his hip and John couldn't do much more than just stare.

His son was ruined and he lowered his gaze to Hamish's face, stared at him blindly and in confusion of how he was still alive. When Hamish had called he told them about his status. Broken arm and _some _ribs. Therefore all these other bruises was caused because of one small reason.

A bloody phone.

He was hooked up to a pulse-ox machine and John was frightened about the vitals. One of them was too high, the other too low and felt how his knowledge slowly crept back into his mind. Then out of nowhere Hamish let out a loud whimper and arched his neck as he tried to breath again. John panicked and leaned over him to get contact as the paramedic pressed a mask over his nose and mouth.

"It's okay." the father comforted calmly and rubbed his thumbs over his temples. "Deep breaths, love. You can do this."

"What's his name?" the woman asked and emptied a syringe into the IV.

"Hamish." John answered quickly and saw how his arms began to flail. He was shaking violently on the stretcher and the pure oxygen did't do much for him. His father had never been so scared. The woman leaned over the boy and rubbed the only clear area on his chest, tried to calm him.

"C'mon little Hamish." she pleaded just as the ambulance took off. "You're scaring daddy. Give us a good breath."

Like a bombardment of shrapnel information spread through John brain and he placed firm hand under Hamish's neck and forced him to stretch it, his other slid under his back and between his shoulder blades and pressed up. To his relief Hamish took a huge breath in the mask and let it out with a loud, weak whine that would scar John for life. Hamish had never in his life made such an awful sound and his limbs started to cramp. Small grunts and moans escaped him as he trashed on the stretcher with a force out of this world and the woman placed two firm hands on his shoulders to keep him down. Then out of nowhere a loud shrieking beeping sounded and little Hamish went still on the table. Not a movement, not a twitch, nothing that could bring them a sign that he was still alive.

Which he wasn't.

John stared at the pulse-ox machine with blank eyes, not ready to believe what was going on and then he was pushed away from his son. He did not argue. How much he even wanted to push the paramedic out of the way and resuscitate him by himself he knew that he would never be allowed or even in his right mind to do so. Then everything turn into a big blur of colours. The two paramedics swayed back and forth in the moving vehicle, getting ready for resuscitation and they stripped the boy to his underwear and more bruises and cuts was being revealed, even a broken ankle and all John could think about in this moment was the question if those wounds would ever be healed or if Hamish would go under ground with them.

The woman and man were shouting, drying all the water of the boy and then pressed the two paddles to his chest. The small body made a massive jolt on the stretcher and the line on the machine took a jump and a dive unto a flat line again. John didn't know where to keep his hands. He wasn't allowed to touch his son, he couldn't hold his hand, not caress his hair or kiss his face. Right now he could only watch as he started to slip into the permanent exit of death and he clasped a hand over his mouth to choke himself from all the whimpers and sobs.

They pumped his lungs with oxygen and decided to shock him a second time. Yet again he jolted and arms and legs smacked the stretcher with a meaty sound. Thats when John closed his eyes. This was something he didn't want to witness. All he could do now was listen, pray, god knows what to keep himself sane in all this mess. If Hamish left him just as he had him back John didn't know what to do? All they'd done had been for nothing.

What would become of him and Sherlock if Hamish left them? Would they continue their lives on Baker Street? Would they keep his toys and things upstairs or get rid of it as quick as possible? Or would Sherlock and John even be able to look at each other without being haunted by the horrible memory of their son's death, leading them to their separation and end of their love?

"There we go! Good boy!"

He looked up from the palm of his hand and heard how the regular beeps had started again. There was a pulse, and Hamish continued to take deep breaths in the mask again. He lived and John felt how everything just collapsed around him in relief for a moment. Legs gave up under him and he grasped the sides of the stretcher tightly as he let out the breath he never realised he'd held. Hamish was breathing, his heart beating and crying.

Crying?

"Hamish?" he cried and placed a warm hand on his trembling shoulder. "Hamish, can you hear me?" The swollen eyelids slowly fluttered open and revealed his blue-green eyes, one bloodshot and nearly hidden underneath the bruise and the other red-rimmed and unfocused. A mix between a laugh and a sob fell over the doctor's lips and he leaned over him while caressing his forehead, trying to make contact. "Hamish? Are you with us?"

The mask was covering half his face and his deep breath fogged the translucent plastic as he tried to form words. John listened closely and wiped the tears that traveled down the boys temples to his ears. The small voice was hardly reaching him and he closed his eyes and strengthened his senses to hear what he was trying to tell him.

"... birds..." he croaked and gave a weak whimper

"What's that?" John asked him and let his cheek caress his sons cheek with warmth.

"Why.. are there... so many birds?" he asked and blinked in confusion as he gave the ambulance a short glance before closing his eyes again. "They're loud." It was the painkillers and the delusion of fever talking, but John had never been so glad to hear something coming out of his son. Those words was nearly poetic as they explained Hamish's first reaction to the loud beeping from the pulse-ox machine.

"They'll stop soon." John promised and pressed kiss to his forehead while crying freely and squeezing his left hand. "I promise."

* * *

The tea was brewing in its pot and Sherlock detested the smell of Earl Grey even if he was met by it morning after morning living with John. Tea would just be stalling the actual killing, he didn't understand why politeness could be so important when a man was standing trial for his death. He just wanted it over with, then wipe up the blood that might have been spilled and leave the body for the morticians to collect. The conversation Mycroft wanted them to share seemed unimportant, dull and tedious.

He watched Mycroft from his armchair, monotonically smattering his fingers to the side of his cheek while his brother did housework. An unusual sight, Mycroft had nearly never lifted a finger in his presence and even less made tea for himself or someone else. It seemed improbable that the british government could do something else than just snoop around.

Holmes the older balanced the tray like one of the butlers he had hired in the palace and strutted like the high class snob he was to the sitting room and put it down without a single rattle on the side table. The tea was steaming and misted the mirror over the mantlepiece while the brother sat down in John's chair. Sherlock pursed his lips. This sight wasn't as friendly as his husband.

"He never entered your secret chambers I presume?" Sherlock groaned and lowered his hand and grasped the armrest tightly.

"He did." Mycroft answered softly and crossed one leg over the other while rubbing his thumb back and forth over his fingertips. "At the moment he might believe that his plans are going exactly after his expectations but the sight of me here might just put him off balance."

The detective frowned and turned his his cheek while observing him sharply. He did not understand what Mycroft tried to explain how much he even wanted to. And he was not planning to ask, his deduction-skills would not be under the impression of being lessened. But Mycroft snickered where he sat, gave his umbrella a spin as he knew he had his brother confused.

"You might just say I pulled a Sherlock on him. Or maybe a Moriarty depending on whose side you're on. Kill the Iceman and who will be there to keep the little brother cold?"

The curls fell over his forehead as he tilted his head and watched his brother under thick lashes. A small, very small, ounce of proud nested in his guts as he started to realise that his older brother had done something very familiar to what he'd done ten years ago. Mycroft had sometime during the past six hours faked his own death and Sherlock was stuck with only one question that he could not utter. But Mycroft knew it already.

"I'll tell you how if you tell me first." he smiled and quirked one of his fiery eyebrows. Sherlock chuckled darkly and braided his fingers together over his thighs.

"Good try." he laughed.

"Then we both'll keep our secrets." Mycroft smiled and sighed loudly. "You jumped. I was poisoned. Now we both the plot, but not the ending. Satisfied?"

"Very." Sherlock snickered and killed his smile. There was now something else he wanted to know and he just managed to open his mouth before Mycroft had the answer.

"Don't you worry little brother." he said with his dragging voice. "Leave it all to me and I'll make sure he wont come back again." The detective answered him with a short nod and then they both suffered in silence for what seemed like minutes.

Slowly and gut retching Sherlock came back to the thought of his son. He's sight slipped into the beautiful but boring oblivion and he ended in the trance of deep thinking. The unknowing was horrid.. Thirty minutes had passed since John left and there had still not been a sound of his whereabout or his wellbeing. It was hard to deduce something when there was nothing to deduce on. Unnoticeably his legs started swaying, kicking the air as he travelled deeper and deeper into his scattered mind and question he never thought he would question himself was born.

What would Baker Street become without Hamish?

He didn't let his mind traveller further than that since things like such would bring him nothing but pain and fright, something he didn't need at the moment and he lifted his head and looked straight at his brother who was taking his deep calming breath.

"I blame you, you know." he murmured and Mycroft blinked once and directed his blue eyes at him.  
"I know." he said as it was no bigger news to him. "But you know how we are. We rarely know when we bring hurt to others, do we?"

"That's not the point." Sherlock growled under his breath and started to pull some of the leathery flakes of the armrests that suddenly bothered him. "Showing him your secrets, putting him at risk when you know his my son. You know how my head worked in his age. Stupidity is what I would call it." Mycroft sighed loudly and nibbled his bottom lip with his sharp teeth, continued to spin his umbrella in silence and tapped his foot at the floor.

"There isn't much more I can do than apologise at the moment, Sherlock." he said. "How great our minds might be, neither you or me can predict the future of our mistakes."

"I don't do mistakes." Sherlock snorted angrily and broke their staring contest. He regretted the words the moment he spoke them, there were many things Mycroft could say to prove him wrong they both knew that. But the room remained silent and Sherlock closed his eyes hard to listen to the beautiful sound on nothing.

He had done a fair deal of mistakes. They both had. Sherlock could make a long list of things he wished he'd never done and an even longer one of things Mycroft had done.

"Making mistakes his human, Sherlock. And not even you can put yourself above than category. I am not proud of putting Hamish in danger or traumatising John." He took a deep breath and his red hair burned in the bright light the snow tossed upon them. "Neither I'm I proud of the things I've done to you during the years. But I am trying to put things right."

Sherlock smothered the hitch in his breath and felt his cheeks get hot. It was a long time since his brother had spoken such words to him and the detective had to take a moment just in case he'd imagined it. They had never really spoken like this since before Mycroft left home and to Sherlock's surprise it felt good. He'd missed this. Just he and his brother completely understanding each other once more and Holmes the older taking care of Holmes the younger. He felt like that thirteen-year-old once more only more understanding of his brothers actions.

The last time the two brothers had talked on a personal level was when their father died. It was a sad story that contained so much more than just the loss of a parent and Sherlock fidgeted by the memory. He was twenty-five and none of them really morned their passed father but they were going to attend to his funeral for their mother's sake. Mycroft had knocked upon his door early that saturday morning, dressed in black and carrying a package of Sherlock's clothing. As no one opened the door to the filthy flat Mycroft let himself in, found Sherlock sitting on the floor in the room without furnitures untangling a rubber band around his arm that had a fresh wound from a syringe and Holmes the older had dropped the suit to the floor.

Sherlock didn't remember much of the conversation his brother tried to have while he was tripping in the beautiful haze but it'd been ages since Mycroft had talked so long and emotionally to him. But Sherlock, the cock he was back then, had only laughed, swayed in the fog and he could swear he'd seen Mycroft cry before he left him there. The day after he woke up with a terrible ache in the back and a copper with silvery grey hair standing over him, kicking him in the chin and a nice meal put up in front of him and with one promise. For every week he stayed clean a new case would be there for him to solve.

Sherlock knew it was all Mycroft behind that deal but it sounded... interesting. It wasn't for nothing that Sherlock had slipped into the detective-work, Mycroft just didn't figure that he was going to stay there. And to all their surprises, he stayed clean. Everything to be a part of the mysteries and to prove people wrong by working on their cases. Mycroft might be a git but he wasn't stupid. And that was also how he met Greg. The man who'd recently lost his daughter and was one the edge wit his wife and who needed something to keep his mind off things found the young Sherlock as something that came with relief, something he could help and something he actually could cure. They seemed perfect for each other, helping one an other out of the deep ditch they'd landed in and Mycroft watched from a distance how his brother climbed up the stairs to a healthy living with a man which he payed by giving his wife the best psychological treatment after his loss.

But now they sat here. Life built to something worth living for that at the moments seemed to be slipping out of their hands and Sherlock swallowed continuously when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and opened the new message.

**Hamish on the way to the hospital with John. Updates when I know more. GL**

Sherlock let out a deep breath, felt all the tensions release his stomach and chest and he clasped the phone to his heart. He was safe.

"They found Hamish." he murmured and he heard his brother sigh and close his eyes for a second.

"Good." he whispered under his breath. Sherlock cleared his throat and blinked blindly at him.

"I'm sorry I didn't make it to dad's funeral." he murmured and fought his gaze that tried to break. "And for... everything I did those years."

"Don't." Mycroft said quickly and shook his head, his smile thin but calming and Sherlock was infected by it. They both knew how much talking about those sorts of things did to the detective's head and Sherlock didn't have to speak his forgiveness to let Mycroft know it was there. He already knew.

* * *

**So, leave a review and tell me what you think. I hope I haven't left you too heart broken. I love all of my readers and I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you. **

**I might do a small side-fic about the first meeting between Sherlock and Greg after his drug use in front of Mycroft. I there is an interest of course. Just let me know. **


	21. The liar and the coward

**Warning: Character's death!**

**Sorry for the hold up. But here it is. **

* * *

John was quickly parted with his son as soon as they entered the hospital. He was rolled off into a distant corridor and John was left alone a cold waiting room that reeked of disinfectant. And there weren't much more he could do than just stare. Through the small rectangular window he saw his son and the crew take a turn around the corner to prep him for surgery and John hadn't even got a chance to say goodbye.  
Hamish had kept on speaking in riddles during the ride, mumbling about birds and how odd it was that a rain fell from the sky in bottles. It might make sense to the boy's fevered mind, but it brought nothing but hurt to John's. His boy was ill, very ill and the chances that he would get out of the narcoses was very small. Letting him sleep now could make him sink into a coma and that was the something John could never accept. Death and coma was not in his list for things that might happen today.

He didn't know how long he stood there, blocking the corridor with his useless vessel while staring through the window, but suddenly someone wrapped a hand around his trembling arm and he recognised the smell of death and perfume so quick Sherlock would be impressed. He looked down on the hand with nails painted in a ballet slipper pink and the grip tightened protectively.

"He will be alright, John." Molly murmured with a small voice. "I bet Mycroft made sure he got the best doctors in whole London." John sighed and covered her hand with his own.

"I just hope that's enough." he quaked and felt himself break apart on the inside. "There wasn't much left of him." The tears welled down his cheek as he turned to Molly with the most sorrowful face she'd even seen and the man fell into her embrace and cried, the solider within him forgotten and gone. Right now he couldn't find the strength to be that strong military he'd once been, just the heartbroken father who'd just seen his son go through inhuman pain on a hard stretcher.

Molly held him tight, supported his weight as he buried his face to her shoulder. Slowly he realised that he'd never been this close to her before. It felt nice. Molly, after all, was a wonderful woman who cared about people more than she should. Sometimes so much she even managed to hurt herself in the proses. She was filled to the brim with love and concern and John had never been so thankful for her presence.

"Please Molly." he whimpered and felt the snot and tears smear over her shoulder. "You're the only one who has access to the ward right now. You know the people at IT. Please, don't let them leave me out of anything." The mortician cradled his heavy head and nudged his temple with her pointy nose.

"I'll do everything I can, John. " she promised and the doctor felt her slim fingers travel through his strands of hair. "I promise. But you need to sit down now. We can't have you all wobbly or they'll send you for checkups quicker than you think." She led him over to the tawdry sofa that mirrored the bright colours of sick after to much pick and mix and he fell down on the bouncy seat with his head in his hands. Curse after curse slipped his lips like a deep mantra and occasionally he shook his head in disbelief. Head was empty, but far to heavy. His eyes seemed to be cloaked with a thick mist that made colours brighter and people insignificant. Wherever he looked the world was spinning slowly and second by second he started to forget everything that was going on around him. Only two thoughts were left in his mind. Sherlock and Hamish.

His stomach was growling and he could hardly remember the last time he ate. How many days had even passed since all this began. Had he eaten or drunk anything at all these last hours except whiskey?

Had Hamish eaten? Had he had anything to drink during his 'visit'?

"John?"

"Mm." he murmured tiredly and lifted his head to see the steaming paper cup on the table painted in yellow. Why in the word did every waiting room have to be so awfully tacky? The art was clearly made by students, cheap and task specific. The walls was cream white with a board of pale green and the plastic floors were covered in shoe marks. This ER was old, at least since the seventies. Hopefully the equipment and doctors were more upgraded than the premisses.

The first sip of tea woke him up again, the taste of Irish breakfast got his mouth working again and the steam unclogged his nose. Tea was nice. Good enough. Then he picked up his phone and stared at the screen for several seconds, just looking at the background. Behind all the icons and apps Sherlock was sitting in his armchair reading from a book to their son who was peacefully sleeping. John smiled at the scene and remembered it like it was yesterday. It took another half an hour before Sherlock realised that Hamish was asleep in his arms and he'd read a whole chapter for nothing. John sighed loudly and wrote a quick message to his husband.

**At the ER. Please call me if possible. John.**

"How was he?" Molly asked with a very small voice and sat down on the table before him, her white coat falling open and showing her, as always, wonderful clothing. Today it was a very christmasy red and green dress that adorned her and John glanced at her brooch shaped as two golden doves flying next to each other. Her pink nails seemed just wrong with her outfit by now.

"He um.." he quaked and lowered his gaze to the cup that warmed his cold hands stained with blood and filth. Those hands had smeared his tears many times and he didn't even want to imagine how his face must look like right now. "It's bad." he mumbled. "His arm's been broken to long and the fat embolism has developed quickly." He bundled up his face and made a small squeak as he swallowed the awful sob.

Then the waiting began. Molly sneaked in and out of the ward with minor news about what his son was going through and John was to afraid to get up from the sofa. Any movement would cause his stomach to take a threatening roll and he didn't want to risk throwing up on the already sick coloured furniture.

Hamish was right now under operation. His arms needed to be pinned and screwed into place and his left lung was gravely punctured. The left ankle was crushed and would possibly be in heavy metal braces for weeks before Hamish could put any weight on it. Christmas would be spent with him on the sofa, John thought. A pout on his lips and arms crossed in disappointment as he couldn't decorate the tree or help in the kitchen cooking food and making sweets. Hamish would be a disappointed little boy this year.

If he survived that is.

After three hours of horrible waiting and six cups of tea Molly sneaked off a fifth time. John picked up his phone again and stared blindly and the screen again. Sherlock hadn't called, maybe they were busy or maybe he didn't have his phone in hand. Worst case scenario, something had gone wrong.

He sent a quick message to Mycroft.

**Everything alright? John **

The loud sound of the smashing into the wall made him jump. He'd heard that noise four times before at he never knew what would follow it as Molly appeared around the corner. Arms wrapped crossed over her chest and brow furrowed as she padded across the floor to sit down beside him.

"His vitals have improved." she murmured with a small smile and crawled up into a ball on the seat. John was tiredly collapsing in on himself, rubbing a hand across his face and groaned loudly. "They've put a tube in his lung and straightened his arm. They just got his foot left and then they're moving him to recovery. Mycroft got him a room for you to..." She took a deep breath and took his hand his hers. "So you can be alone together when he wakes up." John squeezed her hand tightly and took a huge breath to calm his razing pulse. "They're will be a psychologist waiting for him when he wakes up." she continued and stared at the man who seemed to be frozen were he sat. The tears had stopped running a long time ago and his skin had turned ashy grey and nothing else but tiredness was left in his eyes. "John?"

"Yeah." he croaked and nodded quickly. "I see. Um.."

Everything hurt. Eyes was stinging by the lack of blinking. Stomach was tearing and craving for a meal. Heart was aching and arms were longing to hold his son and husband. With a loud sigh he turned to Molly and saw how she was nervously biting her lip. "So... "

"He'll be okay." she smiled but still looked sad beside him. The doctor nearly broke apart by those words and fell backwards in the sofa with a relieved groan. But he knew it wasn't over yet. There were more than just his vessel that needed to heal after this. Hamish was now a broken boy. They had a long way to go to heal the broken mind. He wondered how much Hamish there would be left inside him.

* * *

Three hours and not a word from John or Moriarty. Holmes the older was occupying the plaided armchair with a book in his hand, not said a word since their talk and Sherlock moved around the flat feeling more and more impatient. Why hadn't the man showed yet. This was getting on his nerves and he turned to his desk to pick up his phone, maybe he'd put it on silent.

Turned off? How could he have missed that? He pushed the button and the screen blinked with the logo, starting up itself and Sherlock felt something heavy form in his guts. Three hours had passed since the message from Greg. A lot could happen during that time and Sherlock wondered what he could have missed. Hopefully nothing awful.

A text message from John, pleading him to call. Whatever it was that was growing heavy in his stomach, it just got bigger. To call John he would either hear good or bad new and he would never be ready for the latter. The last thing he wanted to hear now how his son was in the middle of dying.

He was just about to push the call button and face his fears when he heard a small creak coming from the landing. He didn't bother to turn, he just listened sharply as step after step came closer to the sitting room and soon a foot was dragged over the threshold to their home.

"Hello old friend." a cheerful voice greeted from the door and Sherlock held back a cold shiver. That voice could hunt him to the end of the earth and always have the same effect on him since the fall. The cover of the phone gnashed as he gripped it even tighter, making himself prepared to turn around. His eyes roamed the two armchairs and he realised that Mycroft had left the room. At the moment the detective and the criminal was left alone in the room, and Sherlock felt his fingers itch int he need of strangle that man's throat.

"Jim." he greeted with a small nod and slipped the phone into his left pocket.

"Alive and well I see." Jim said with a smirk and swayed back and forth as he entered the apartment with his hands in his pockets, a crocked smile twitching his lips and his dirt staining his grey suit.

"You faked too then, what a coincidence." Sherlock said coldly but managed to mirror his smile with just as much evilness.

"Oh yes." Jim giggled and stopped in his steps. "Rather funny, don't you agree? Who knew we would pull the same ace out of our sleeves?" Sherlock sighed and stretched his neck and back to make himself look as tall as possible.

"How?"

"How indeed?" Jim smirked and licked his lips almost seductively and the detective frowned in disgust and confusion. He knew that Jim always had some sort of - attraction - towards him. The first time they met down at the lab the man had flirted endlessly and even during their meetings it had continued. Even if they both were staring death in the eye Jim had never missed an opportunity to wink and give him a flirtatious smirk. Sherlock did not like it one bit. "Time has taken it's toll on you, hasn't it?" He padded across the floor and the detective had to stop himself from retreating as the man came closer, almost intruding his personal space and he could smell his breath from this distance, he hated it. "Look at those crow feet at the corner of your eyes." he smiled and pulled his hands out of his pockets. "You're getting old, friend."

Sherlock could only stare and notice everything that had changed about his nemesis as well. Strands of hair had greyed around his ears, eyebrows had gone soggy over his lids and lips seemed thinner. Time had done more to him than to the reflection staring back at the detective every morning. Sherlock couldn't help to feel a bit smug about this and Jim seemed to notice this as he pursed his lips in anger, nodded almost unnoticeably as he took a step further.

"How does it feel now as fatherhood might be coming to an end?" he asked coldly and Sherlock shivered by the words. "Is it an relief? I could never imagine you with children anyway. It must feel good to almost be free from that kind of... vermin."

Limbs burned and his eyes darkened within him. This man had kidnapped their son, put him and John under house arrest in belief that they would get executed the moment they left the house, he'd blown up Lestrade's apartment, 'killed' Mycroft, broken his son, but nothing could beat the feeling of that Jim thought that the death of Hamish would bring relief to him. Once again he questioned himself if he really appeared to be that cold and Jim smiled at him again, possibly gorging on the look and he'd caused on Sherlock's face.

"Don't call my son a vermin." he said warningly and stretched his neck until he reminded one if a peacock with it's feathers spread, he only hoped he looked somewhat threatening. "I would suggest you sit down and just shut for now." Jim opened his mouth wide in and ironic expression of shock and brought a hand to his lips. The detective noticed the trace of Semtex under his nails, the dirt covering his sleeve. This was a day old suit, smeared with slush a d dirt from his promenade around London with no jacket and Sherlock made some quick deductions. Jim hadn't had an income for months, maybe years. His money had been saved and spent on the most important things like travel and surviving. This suit had been worn day after day with a little washing and Sherlock blinked. This was really a suicide. Jim had nothing left to live for and had probably just spent his last penny since today was his last day.

"How was your last meal?" Sherlock asked. "Satisfactory?" Jim laughed and backed away to the chair slowly.

"Nothing beats what the small stores I've passed during this trip had to offer." he smiled and plopped down in Sherlock's armchair with a satisfied groan. "But I wouldn't say no to a nice cuppa." He turned his head in a neck breaking angle to look at Sherlock with big brown eyes. "If you're offering one that is?"

Tea? The man who just called Hamish a vermin demanded tea? Sherlock might not know much about social behaviour but this was just wrong. To him Jim had no right to even survive the step over their threshold.

"No." he said sharply and trotted across the room and fell backwards into John's armchair to face his enemy like a true gentleman. Wherever Mycroft had gone off to Sherlock was sure he had some plan in mind with his disappearance. The air seemed to become thicker, sun was setting behind the tall buildings and first now the detective noticed the fire crackling beside them. Sometime during his deep pondering his brother seemed to have made their flat as homey and welcoming as possible for the nemesis and spider, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. Was this something you did for a man on death row? A kindness of some sort that Sherlock couldn't wrap his mind around?

"Oh c'mon, Sherlock." Jim sang with his crocked smile, showing off his white teeth. "Not even you should be cold enough to deny a dying man's wishes."

"You're not technically dying." he sighed and blinked to show how uninterested he was in this topic. "You sentenced yourself to this outcome so it's more of a suicide."

"So you are planning to kill me?" Jim beamed while giving him an evil look that would hunt Sherlock's dreams for ages. Just like their last meeting. He quickly shrugged it off and took a deep breath to calm his drumming heart. The last thing he needed now was to loose control over his vessel and start to quiver.

"Yes." he lied and braided his hands together under his chin. The villain looked like a child on christmas eve with those words and smiled happily. "Or what will happen if I don't?"

"I'll give my men a quick call and there'll be a body to collect for you at the destination of your choice." So, Sherlock thought, Jim didn't know he was already beaten. "You should see him now, Sherlock. He's a complete mess, a piece of meat that is ready for slaughter. If he survives some of them might never heal. And not to mention his mind. After all he caused the death of forty-six innocent souls, plus your brother." Sherlock clenched his jaw and swallowed the deep breath that had been hurting his lungs.

"You told him about them?" he asked and felt the hatred blossom up to his cheeks. Hamish knew. He knew about the people he would be sacrificing by giving Jim that map and Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what the cost was if he hadn't done it.

"Yes I did." Jim chuckled. "I gave him an ultimatum. Draw me a map that will be the death of lots of people or let your parents die." Sherlock sighed angrily and pinched his skin under his jaw to keep himself of flinging out and hit the cruel spider in front of him. "D'you know what he said when I told him people would die because of that map?" Sherlock didn't, and he wasn't sure if he ever wanted to know.

**That's what people do.**

Blood went cold and his vessel stiff. He could only imagine the satisfaction dwelling within the villain as Hamish had uttered those words in his presence. What a marvellous thing it must have been for him to hear. The exact same words he himself had said all those years ago while fingering the button that would blow up John. What a perfect scenario for Jim to play on.

"He's so much like you, Sherlock." he sang happily while tapping his fingers to the armrest. "He showed no care of the innocent Londoners as long as I let you live. And if you remember, you and I are the same. What does that make little Hay?"

The last drop flooded the glass and Sherlock untangled his hands to let them fall down on his lap. The hatred inside him against this man had been on ice for so many years and today it would finally come to a respectable end. He was ready to humiliate him, pick him apart bit by bit and them step on the pieces of flesh as he ripped it off his bones.

"You're alone, Jim. The few people you've hired are right now either dead or captured. We've got Hamish, he's now safe and sound. Lestrade's home might be ruined but it's rebuildable."

But Jim didn't seem to be bothered by this. The smile was still adorning his lips and Sherlock started to feel uncomfortable in his seat. Was there something he's missed?

"Well that's not the point anymore, is it?" Jim beamed. "As your son said, this is a suicide mission and here we are. I'm ready to die. And you're ready to kill. And did you ever stop and think about Lestrade for a moment. A home might be rebuildable, but the memories I just burned isn't. Or are you just to inhuman no to notice what pains I've caused your dear copper?" Sherlock closed his mouth, slowly starting to remember.

"Ooh." he sighed. "His daughter?"

"I ruined everything he had left of her. Those people dying was just a bad side effect. But I wouldn't be surprised it your friend will dig down deep in the memories of little Alice and never be the same once more." Once again Sherlock was facing the conundrum of why someone could still grief someone that died so many years ago. This disappointed him that he's overlooked this about Lestrade and he was struck by the thought that he maybe needed to contact him. Jim's work with him would be a suffer of a lifetime, not something you could rebuild as easy as a apartment building. There was more behind that deed that Sherlock never noticed this morning.

"Then there's my brother." he quickly continued to seem unbothered.

"Oh yes." Jim chimed. "How will you survive without him? Who will get you out of trouble now?" Sherlock laughed aloud this time. He'd got him good.

"He will, to your disappointment, continue to save my behind for years to come, old fried." he smiled and gorged in the moment when Jim lost his face. Tat smile died on the thin lips and Sherlock frightfully close as he observed the smugness fade. "I won't be the one to execute you."

The flat went nicely while the words of victory filled the air. Jim would die with a smile on his face. Sherlock had destroyed his plans, his lies where reveal and nothing had gone according to his plans. Jim would die but not the way he wanted to, but in the hands of the wrong Holmes.

"Isn't it cowardly to let your big brother to finnish what we've started?" he growled.

"Don't talk to me about cowardliness, liar." Sherlock smiled and stood up from the chair to straightened his jacket. "Brother, dear!?"

A loud clonk was heard from the kitchen as Mycroft smacked the tip of his umbrella to the floor and he stepped into the room while swirling a glass of whiskey in his other hand. His birdlike face had never looked more anticipant as he laid eyes on the man that he was about to kill and Sherlock would forever keep a secret about this moment. His brother had managed to scare him with the look he wore, the eagerness to kill.

"Hello Jim." he murmured and put away the glass before stepping inside. "So, should we put some towels out so we wont ruing the rug?"

The villain stood up and stared at the two brothers under thick eyelashes, hatred sparkling from his eyes as he realised how badly he'd failed but he kept his mouth tightly shut.

"That's it, mr Moriarty." Sherlock growled. "You've lost your own game. Nothing went as planned and you foul days on this green earth is now coming to and end. But no way near the way you wanted to. I won't be the one killing you." Jim stared at him, nostrils flaring and hands clenched into hard fists. "Your plan died the moment my son decided to pickpocket you. My son beat you. A seven-year-old boy. How does that feel?" There were no joy in these words as he spoke them. Even if he'd solved the case, humiliated the greatest villain he'd ever faced he couldn't find this to his satisfaction. Because somewhere in London his son was at the moment fighting for his life. The sweet revenge about to come might not be enough if Hamish perished from the wounds this spider had caused him.

"Just do it quick." Jim growled and took three long steps over to Mycroft. "Let's get this little charade over with. I'm done with both of you." Mycroft smiled and spun his umbrella.

"Just let me thank you, Jim." he beamed. "For giving me and my brother the opportunity to humiliate you together." He reached out his hand and Jim stared at the limb with cold eyes that were already dead. The detective observed them from Jim's back, for once feeling utterly human as he would watch the man who had tried to ruin his life die. A heavy rock had started to grow in his guts and he feared what it would become the moment Jim's heart seized to beat, what the world would turn into without him in it.

Jim, to both the brothers' surprise, took Mycroft hand and held it tightly as he waited for death.

Three dull smacks to the floor with Holmes' the older umbrella the bottom part fell to the floor and something gleamed in his hand in the yellow light from the fire. In the blink of and eye Jim uttered a small gasp and Mycroft smiled calmingly at him as his head slowly fell to his shoulder.

"There, there." he whispered like he was comforting a small child with nightmares. His face unbothered and showing nothing more than satisfaction. "To sleep we go."

* * *

**there we go. This chapter was really hard for me. I had to rewrite it like three times because I was never happy with the outcome. I hope you are though. Tell me what you think. **

**There are still some chapters to go. After all I need to conclude Hamish's recovery and I need to do something about Lestrade and everyone that I have tortured in this fic. **


	22. Poseidon's wave

**New chapter, but not the last one. I guess two, maybe three more. We'll see about that. But, enjoy this for now. **

* * *

The fall of Moriarty was done with so much grace Sherlock couldn't understand he'd just witnessed an execution. The villain who'd haunted his mind for so long was finally falling to the floor without Mycroft's concern and Sherlock saw the small blade at the end of the curved handle. So that's what's been hiding inside that black umbrella all this time. He watched in silence as his brother cleaned the blade with his monogrammed handkerchief and shoved it back into its compartment. With a low tut he noticed the stain of blood on his suit and sighed loudly.

"Oh well." he groaned and looked up at Sherlock with a thin smile. "All thing's must come to an end." The detective had no idea if he were talking about the suit or the man lying dead on the floor but one thing was certain, Mycroft wasn't bothered one bit by taking another mans life. "You go, little brother, I'll take care of this mess."

A man lying dead on the floor was a mess in his mind. In Sherlock's - something terrifying. He'd seen men die before but making one's heart stop to beat in the middle of his own home was something completely different. To see the vessel of his old enemy fall limp on his floor, staining his carpet with his crimson blood was something he wasn't prepared for. His heart clenched warningly and he gave a weak whimper before staggering backwards in pure chock.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in concern and blinked. "Are you alright?"

The detective hurried over the floor and flailed for his coat, he needed to get out of here and see Hamish, to see John, to hold them both. He stumbled down the stairs and out on the street, head swimming with all the thought of what was going on around him. Moriarty was dead. Really dead. Beaten and humiliated but Sherlock couldn't find any satisfaction in this. He was shaking, completely turn off from reality and everything just _happened _around him. Before he knew it he was sitting in a cab, squeezing his hands until they hurt and breath shallow. He felt like he did while being drugged in the moor all those years ago only this time his system was clean. This was a panic attack and he was ashamed of himself for reacting this way. This wasn't right. This was too - human.

The cab stopped outside the hospital and he paid quickly before tossing himself out on the icy drive way, head going _John John John _over and over until it felt like a prayer in his mind, but the name calmed him, and the face that belonged to it even more. He reached the entrance and for the first time he didn't deduce everything about the young man sitting in the reception, he was only here for one thing.

"Where's Watson-Holmes?" he asked hurriedly and slammed both his hands to the counter, making the nurse jump in his seat. "I'm Hamish's father, Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes." the man quaked and cleared his throat. "He's been moved to recovery. It's..." He didn't need to know where, he already knew. He ran passed the elevators and pushed the door open to the stairs. Taking two each time he was soon to reach the third floor and he stepped into the ward with his eyes locked on the new reception.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes." he said loud and clear. "Hamish Watson-Holmes' father." The woman's eyes grew by his loud dark voice and Sherlock noticed how panicked he must seem to be.

"But.." she quaked. "His father's already there."

"For god's sake, we're gay!" he thundered to drown her stupidity and the young woman jolted, a blush creeping up to her cheek as she understood.

"Oh.." she stuttered. "He.. um.. he's in room 15C, just down the corridor and to the left." Like someone had set fire to his coat he was off, running down the corridor until he saw the number written on the big green door.

John had never seen his husband like this. Big eyed, breathless and pale and he stood up from the chair to gather him in his arms. The detective fell and landed into the smells that he'd been longing for and craved these last couple of hours, finally everything started to get clear again, everything had logic again.

"He's dead." he mumbled into John's strong shoulder and nuzzled a little closer to his neck. John's chest heaved against his own and a pair of soft lips pressed to his temple, he could smell the salt from all his tears.

"About time." the doctor laughed while sobbing and pulled him a little closer when the detective tensed. Sherlock hadn't dared to look at the bed beside them yet, he didn't want to see what was lying there waiting for him.

"Tell me." he pleaded with a small voice, flailing his arms to get a new grip around his John as he screwed his eyes shut. "Please. How is he?" John took a deep breath and swayed back and forth with him on the spot, stroking his back while holding on to a fist of curls.

"He'll be alright." he answered and Sherlock whimpered in sweet relief. "But it will take time. He'll need professional help to get over what's happen to him. We alone can't do it." He sniffled. "He as a long way to go, Sherlock. We need to be patient."

Patients. Something the detective didn't posses. One of his biggest enemies was waiting. But for Hamish, he could do it. He lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at John. His face was swollen by all the crying, blood and dirt smeared across his cheeks but he smiled. Not a smile of happiness but of calm. Slowly, very slowly, the detective turned his head to the bed to lay his eyes on his boy. A whimper fled him. Tubes, needled, metal and tape was covering him and nothing could have prepared him for this sight. His son was beaten black and blue and he regretted that Mycroft was the one to carry out the deed.

"Oh my lord." he breathed and walked over to the bedside. His beautiful boy, torn and broken, but alive. The dark hair was wet and smelled strongly of disinfectant, left eye was bruised bad, right cheek swollen with a broken cheekbone, lips still blue from the lack of oxygen. But this was just the simpler wounds. Sherlock continued to roam the rest of the body. Hamish's right side laid open with a tube sticking out between his ribs, his arms war plastered from shoulder to wrist, chest bruised and his left shin in braces with screws that dug into his flesh. "Oh my dear boy." He let his hands caress the dark hair and he smiled weakly at him even if he was still sleeping with a tube shoved down his throat. "I'm so sorry."

"This is not your fault." John said quickly and wiped his tears. "Please Sherlock, don't blame yourself for this." A loud sob came from the tall man and he buried his face into the pillow close to Hamish's head, his hand cupping the boy's unbruised cheek. "Please, Sherlock." The doctor pressed himself to his back and felt him shaking. "Don't do this, love. Don't torment yourself like this."

Suddenly with a noisy breath Sherlock sucked up his tears and straightened his back, quickly wiping his tears with the back of his hands and swallowing before letting out a new breath.

"Are you alright?" he asked and turned to John, now a completely different person from the man who'd just cried into the pillow. Still sad, but not on the edge of breaking apart. John took this as good news.

"I'm fine." he murmured and cupped Sherlock's face. "Please tell me you are too." Sherlock huffed a laugh and tilted his head to the side.

"I am now." he answered and captured his husbands lips. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner but... I was caught up." The tension in the room eased noticeably with those small words and John started to giggle like deranged person, in a mix between relief and sorrow. Sherlock fell into the same fit and pressed his forehead to his'.

"Mycroft killed him." he mumbled between giggles. "He didn't want me to do it and... I think that was a good decision even if I regret it now. Seeing Hamish like... like this."

"Sherlock." John interrupted with a relived sigh and pulled him into a new hug. "I thing that was a very good decision. You don't know what killing does to a man." He spoke out of knowledge, that PTSD wasn't for nothing and he was sure that Sherlock didn't want to go through the same thing. To have someone's blood on your hands would do more damage than any weapon in the world could. Sherlock turned his head and gave his son a second look.

"When will he wake up?"

"They don't know for sure. His body's taking all the decisions after the narcoses has left him. He's going through trauma right now, it might be days."

"Can we stay?"

"Of course."

"I mean all the time." Sherlock said quickly. "I don't want to go home." With that Sherlock realised that he might never be able to go back to that place. That's where Moriarty had died, that's the place he was going to haunt. Sherlock didn't believe in ghosts, but he believed in memories. Every time from now as he walk from the kitchen to his chair he would pass the spot where Moriarty so slowly had fallen and that frightened him. Tears started to fall again and he whimpered. "I don't think I can go home for a while." It felt so wonderful that John didn't have to ask for a reason. He knew very well and he could understand Sherlock better than anyone else could.

"Let's borrow my parents' vacation house during the holiday. Get away from the city a while. I think all three of us might need that."

"Four." Sherlock said urgently. "We can't leave Lestrade. We just can't." His heart clenched by the thought of his friend and he sank into John's embrace once more. "He can't be alone during christmas."  
The doctor felt his knees go weak when he heard his husband speak such kind words. Sherlock had never been much for emotions in himself or in anyone else, but now he actually cared about someone outside the family by blood. He cared about Greg. He really did.

"We're not leaving him in London, that's for sure." he grinned and kissed Sherlock's trembling jaw. "Let's bring Mrs Hudson as well. I think London could do without her for a couple of days without collapsing."

* * *

Five hours later nothing had changed with Hamish, the respirator was still helping him breath and the colour started to reappear in his skin. An hour ago John had fallen onto the sofa, now he was snoring loudly and drooling on the cushion and Sherlock observed him and Hamish with the last ounces of energy left in him while sitting close to the bed. He held Hamish's healthy hand his his and played with the short fingers, kissed them once and a while and sighed continuously.

He had him.

The telly was on and making some noise in the room. The silence was just to intriguing and the movie based on the adventures of Odysseus was making a fair deal of nice songs and melodies that Sherlock could stand. He smiled each time he noticed a character based on the mythological tale, sirens and cyclops trapped in human forms in a movie that unfolds in the twenties.  
He traced a hand through Hamish's soft strands of hair and smiled calmly at him. "I think you would like this one." he whispered. "Remember when I read Odysseus for you? With Poseidon and Homerous? You enjoyed it so much. I wonder if you would spot the resemblances." He kissed his hand again and rubbed his shoulder. "Can you hear me, handsome? It's time to wake up."

There was a soft knock on the door and Sherlock looked up from the small body on the bed to see a good, old friend enter the room. The very tired Greg smiled even if was clear he had no energy to do so and held up the bag with take out before looking at his nephew. The smile died and was all the pain surfaced with a loud sigh as he tilted his heavy head.

"Oh my lord.." he breathed and placed the bag on the small table beside the sofa before he stepped closed to the bed. "I knew it was bad but... Will he be alright?"  
"Yes." Sherlock answered cooly. "After time. Possibly a very long time." Greg rubbed a hand across his face and stared at his nephew in disbelief while tears formed in his eyes. Then his limbs went limp, and his arms fell to his sides like someone had cut the strings. A huge breath entered his lungs as he tried to suck it up and be brave and he nearly managed. A couple of tears broke the dam but he didn't care. He took a step over to the bed in metal and fabric and placed a shaking hand on top of Hamish's head.

"At least he'll be alright." he quaked and rubbed his thumb down the boy's nose bridge. "It could have been worse."

Sherlock stared. His friend had been through this before with his own flesh and blood. He'd seen a child slowly fade and decay while still living and Sherlock couldn't imagine the feeling of not being able to help. Hamish would live. Alice didn't. Sherlock wondered if the copper found some relief or help in that fact or if this would break him down even more, living through another fright of a child's life that is.

"Greg?" he murmured and swallowed the saliva thick as syrup before he could speak the next sentence that rarely touched his tongue because of the foul taste it often left on it. "Are you alright?" Greg cracked a smile and gave him a laughing sob as he stood hunched over the body.

"I'm feeling better now, yes." he answered and wiped the tears dripping from nose down on the hospital blanket. "I've had my breakdown for today." Sherlock tilted his head and gave the DI's appearance a quick observe. Cheek's were stained, hair unwashed for days, clothes still unchanged and pocket filled with used tissues. Clear signs of a nervous breakdown, it wouldn't surprise the detective if Greg left their flat in a hurry just to beat the dashboard while crying in pain after the sight of his home. Sherlock lowered his head and closed his eyes.

"Greg..." he began quietly as another song started on the telly. An old man sang an even older folk song from the american culture and it didn't seem fitting for this situation. The lyrics about death, or more sung by Death. How he opened the door to heaven or hell and nothing could satisfy him more than one's soul, Sherlock could only picture death with the face of Jim at the moment. Like he thought, that face would haunt him for months to come.

"Hamish!?" Greg's voice echoed between the taupe walls and Sherlock woke up from his deep thinking to see his son tensing on the bed. His left hand clutched the blanket hard enough for his knuckles to go white, his face bundled up and the pulse-ox machine beeped fanatically.

"John!" the detective shouted in pure panic and ran over to the bed to calm the little boy who fought the tubes and bandages. John on the sofa jolted up from the cushions the second a doctor and a nurse ran inside and tackled the detective and copper from the bed. Sherlock shouted angrily while Greg held him back and once again John's instincts came to life.

To his liking he was able to take a part in the mess happening on the bed. His son was trashing like a rag doll and the nurse held him down as the doctor filled the IV-line with sedating and morphine. That's when Hamish's eyes shot open and his green-blue eyes flickered around the room in panic, filled to the brim with tears and the doctor decided to remove the respirator to let him breath on his own. Hamish gagged and grunted as they pulled out the tube and John held his head firmly while stroking his thumbs over his temples and hushing gently. The plastic left his throat with loud retchings that soon turned into scream and for the first time in hours John could gather him in his arms.

"I've got you!" he shouted to drown the terrified screams the was now muffled by his shoulder. "I'm here Hamish! Me and dad is here!" But the screams continued, sometimes abrupt by an awful cough that tore his throat sore but he couldn't stop his shouting.

"Get me out!" he sobbed loudly with a voice coming from the bottom of his lungs. "I wanna go home! Please!" The healthy hand reached out and grabbed John's shirt weakly.

"You're at the hospital, love. We've got you." The sedative took its effect and soon the child started to go limp in his arms, the screams turned into soft grunts. Out of nowhere Sherlock fought his way through to the bed and wrapped his arms around them both and buried his nose in the dark hair.

"It's alright." he murmured calmingly and stroke his back. "We've got you."

* * *

The smells of pine and oil entered his nose and his sobs turned into hiccups. He snuggled a little closer to the familiar smells and cried softly as he started to recognise them.

"Daddy?" he squeaked and grabbed his shirt a little tighter.

"Yes." a soft voice sobbed close to his ear and he felt the hands petting him but he was still shaking. That awful melody went on around them and he whined loudly in pain and fear. He knew those words. "He's here." he cried and felt curls tickle his temple. "Get him away!"

"He's gone, Hamish." a dark voice told him. "He's dead, I promise you." Slowly the song came to and end and turned into the sound of flooding water and the he soon heard the fast beeping and the ticking clock. Something that did not appear in the cell he'd been captured. Maybe he wasn't there anymore after all. He opened his eyes and was met by the plaided shirt that he'd seen before. Maybe he was safe. He blinked in confusion and sniffled.

"Hamish?" a dark voice asked and he felt vibrations from someone's chest pressed to his back. "Are you with us?" A huge breath fell trembling over his lips.

"Dad?" he asked and the man behind him squeezed his arms with a big hand.

"Yes." he murmured and he could feel a pair of lips smile to the back of his head. That's when he broke down into a river of tears and relief. He was with them, he was out of the grip of the villain and his fathers had him in their arms. Where he belonged. He lifted his head from the strong shoulder, sniffling, hiccuping, trembling and in pain and he laid eyes upon his daddy who gave him a weak smile while tears fell down his cheeks. In the corner of his eye the dark hair intruded and he turned his head and saw his dad, eyes red-rimmed but not crying, not anymore.

"We've got you, handsome." Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "There's nothing to be afraid of." With a loud sigh his eyes drifted closed and his head hit the pillow, still trembling and sobbing the pain started to get more and more intrusive and he looked up at John in despair.

"It hurts." he cried and swallowed with a very dry throat.

"Where?" John asked and wiped both of their tears.

"Everywhere." he sobbed and felt Sherlock's big hand squeeze his own. John wish he could say it would pass soon but Hamish had been given the biggest doze they could of morphine. This was a very small amount of pain he felt and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Just relax, okay." he murmured and tucked the blanket around him. "Try to get some sleep. We'll be here." But Hamish shook his head and tried not to cry loudly.

"Please." he sobbed and flailed his arm to get hold of Sherlock. "Please don't let me sleep. I can't. Please." The detective hushed gently and kissed his hand, caressed his forehead wile looking him straight in the eye. Panic was lingering in them and it didn't seem to disappear soon. There was possibly not a word in his vocabulary that could make it go away either.

"Okay." he murmured and didn't break their contact. "You may stay awake." He caressed the dark hair and Hamish pinned him with his wide eyes that glanced in tears that didn't seize to well up. "We're not going anywhere, I promise." The boy stared as his jaw started to tremble and soon his face bundled up as another frightful shout left him. Now of relief and sorrow of what had happened and Sherlock face scrunched up in pain as he saw his son break for real. With a big hand he lifted his head and brought him to his shoulder where he could cry out and Hamish did. Sobs forced its way up his his throat, left it raw and scratched and Sherlock pressed his cheek to his temple.

John straightened his back and search everywhere inside his mind to find the lost solider but he was nowhere to be found. Another bravery started to take over, one that would allow him to cry, in his mind it was the bravery of a good father and he sniffled loudly as he touched his little boy.

Hamish screamed into Sherlock's shoulder like the sound didn't stop. It was a sickness, something that needed out before his body could heal an none of them tried to stop him, like the poison of a wound.

"Dad!" he cried and grabbed a hold of his curls that had messed up from all the times Sherlock had pulled them. "Pick me up! Please!" It wasn't a request as much as an order. Or maybe a medication for the fear and even if Hamish was hooked up to machines and was heavily bandaged John somehow managed to wound him in many blankets to dull the pain of lifting him up. The detective sat down on the bed and received him carefully, held him tight to his chest and felt his body vibrate.

"I've got you." he whispered into the dark hair. "I'm not letting you go." Hamish sobbed even louder and the closeness of his father dulled the pain more than the morphine. He crawled close even if the big plaster and steel braises was huge obstacles for him. The detective let go of a big breath and let the hot hair caress his sons ear as he groaned.

"It's over, handsome." he murmured. "I'm not letting anything like this happen to you ever again."

Hamish would remember that promise for the rest of his life, and after all there was no one he believed more than Sherlock who alway told the truth. Still shaking and hiccuping he stared into nothingness with his head resting onto Sherlock chest, slowly feeling the tiredness take over but he refused to sleep. Maybe this was a dream. If he fell asleep here maybe he would wake up back in his cell with the villain kneeling beside him. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.

He blinked, over and over to make it go away and he heard the voices around him. Someone tried to make contact but he couldn't quite understand their words. His older father closed in and observed him with a furrowed brow. Lips moved but not a sound left him and his father looked only more worried. A doctor came and went, a nurse poked about with the needle in his hand and soon the taupe walls seemed more colourful than they should be.

"Dad?" he said. Or tried to say, it was nothing more than an embarrassing slur and the arms around him wound a little tighter. He tried again but it sounded even more slurred a second time. Someone tried to feed him some yogurt and he licked the strawberry flavour off his lips. It was good, but it seemed unreal. Not because of the fact that that dessert didn't contain a single real strawberry but because of the wail before his eyes seemed to thicken. Something picked pieces from his mind and each important fact was taken from him until he couldn't remember anything more than that the taste on his tongue was powdery and distasteful. Then he blinked and couldn't help that he wouldn't open them again for a long time.

The detective heard his son sigh and his body relaxed in his holding, finally gone back to sleep after two hours of silence. He hadn't answered to a single question or cried since Sherlock took him. Maybe it was the medicine he needed and he pressed a kiss to his brow as he started to snore silently.

John placed aside the small container of yogurt and took a deep breath before looking over at Greg that stood by the table, both hands placed to its surface and head lowered between his shoulders. He looked more grey than usual and John tried not to think about the daughter he'd once lost. The pains rippling through him and reopening wounds, making him bleed on the inside. John knew very well the feeling of reopened wounds. Every time he had a nightmare from the war it tore up every metaphorical stitch he'd patched up his wounds with and hell broke loose inside one's head. Facing your fears didn't work in this situation.

"Greg?" he murmured and with a loud groan the copped lifted his heavy head. "Stay." A breathy laugh left him and he shook his head.

"I don't think I could manage to go anywhere." he quaked and gave him a nervous smile. And then John did something Greg probably hadn't done with a grown person for years. John gathered him in his arms and hugged him tight, pressed the air out of their lungs and his friend fell into the embrace with so much relief several stones must have left his body. This was his medicine, a small sign of gratitude for being there, being Hamish's godfather, being their friend.

For being Greg.

* * *

**If there's an interest in what movie triggered Hamish's memories it's the "O brother where art tho'" by the Coen Brothers. **

**Any way, leave a review and tell me what you thing. They always make me so happy. **


	23. The story of Sebastian

**Sorry for the hold up. I've been really busy these last couple of weeks. But here's a new chapter. **

* * *

The night past and Hamish slept through it without a sound or movement. Sherlock never left his side. He didn't eat, sleep or leave for the loo a single time during their stay and John started to grow worried. It was like Sherlock had shut down everything about him since Hamish went to sleep. The boy had gone limp in his arms and Sherlock had carefully placed him back amongst sheets and pillows to sit down beside him. Since then he hadn't moved an inch. He'd not touched his tea that John had served, not even looked at the sandwich wrapped in plastic or noticed the blanked that'd been wound around him.

John did what he could to feel close to them, even if he missed both of their presence. He visited the bedside as much as he could, when he wasn't resting on the sofa or drinking his tea, played with Hamish's dark hair, checked his vitals and fixed with the many tubes and pieces of tape. He talked, asked Sherlock question that only was given short answers without as much as a look and John felt his stomach tighten. Something wasn't right with his husband.  
After the sixth cup of tea and fifteenth visit by a nurse he started to get enough by his husbands silence and he heaved himself up from the sofa. He sneaked over to the bed and saw Sherlock hugging their boy's hand in his own, stroking his big thumb back and forth over his wounded knuckles.

"Sherlock?" he murmured and kneeled beside him, saw the dark circles under his eyes and the stub that had started to grow, making him look older and not as angelic as he usually did. "Where are you?" Sherlock took a deep shivering breath and fell back in the chair, on the brink of crying and John did what he been wanting to do for hours now. He crawled up in his lap, wrapped his arms around him and felt Sherlock do the same and they melted together. Just holding each other was enough to make John feel at ease again. "What's wrong? You promised me not to blame yourself."

"I'm not." he murmured tiredly with his forehead pressed to the nape of John's neck.

"Then what is it?" he asked and kissed the many curls tickling his face. "Please, tell me." The detective sighed and pulled him a little closer, breathed him in and spread his warm fingers over his neck.

"It's over, John." he quaked. "We put down Moriarty in the middle of our living room. His ghost will forever haunt our home?" John gave up a small giggle and rubbed his back.

"It's not like you to be superstitious." he murmured and Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm not. I'm.." he mumbled and swallowed. "It's just that his death will remind me every time I pass that spot from now on."

"But that isn't what home is for, is it?" John smiled and caressed his dark curls lovingly while kissing his temple. "How about that the sitting room is where Hamish learned to walk. Where he bumped his head in the mantelpiece and needed three stitches in the back of the head." Sherlock managed to giggle at that memory and the grip around eased slightly. "Or where you bursted out your proposal in the middle of a row and knocked me off my feet?" The detective laughed this time and lifted his head to look at John with his tired eyes.

"That shut you up, didn't it." he murmured happily and his doctor smiled.

"For a moment." he answered and kissed his lips. "Are you really going to let that man destroy all that?" Sherlock blinked, feeling utterly stupid for a moment as his cheeks started to turn pink in embarrassment.

"No." he sighed and let his forehead rest against John's. "No, I'm not." John smiled and let go of a deep breath that carried out all the worries he'd had for his husband.

"Good." John smiled and relaxes in his arms, pressed his lips against his and for the first time since two days back, Sherlock kissed him too. It was a kiss John would value for days to come and he brushed the curls overlapping the dark brows and took a good look at him. Colours started to come back to his detective, like life found its way back to him after Hamish reappearance and John realised once more how much he loved that man.

"Where did Greg go?" Sherlock asked and roamed the room after his disappeared friend.

"He left a couple of hours ago." John grinned and rubbed his thumb over the scruff on his jaw. "But you were in such a deep state we didn't bother to tell you, you tosser." Sherlock smiled and a low moan left him as he wrapped his arms once more around his husband and buried his prickly face to his shoulder.

"Could you fetch me some new tea?"

* * *

Hamish woke up with a loud whimper and quickly searched the area for a known face and the first one he saw was John who cupped his face the moment before he screamed in panic. The anxiety was left on ice for the moment but far away from gone as he saw those lines in the blur of colours.

"It's okay!" John said quickly and made sure he saw him, drilled his eyes into his and pinned him into a sane state. "I'm still here. It's okay." Small whines left the little boy as he still couldn't grasp the situation and his left hand grabbed John hard around the wrist. The breaths were quick and shallow and John hushed him gently and stayed in his eye level until he was back from the sleeping state. The doctor wiped the tears with his thumbs and smiled fatherly at him.

"Daddy?" he stuttered like he was cold to the bones, for a second convinced that he was when he felt his body shiver.

"Hello." John smiled and stroke his hair just as he started to calm down. "Do you remember where you are?" Hamish was going to take a huge breath when he felt the burning pain in his chest that made him cry out in pain and thew his head back in John's hands. It was like his lungs just got stuck in the blades of a blender, tossing, shredding, cutting like his insides was being prepared for a fancy dinner and the pain went all through him until he could feel his other pulsing wounds. He failed his mission not to cry and he closed his eyes hard as hands started to caress his hair and face. It hurt, badly and he could hear his father's voices trying to calm him. It didn't work. The fearful pain overpowered and made his ears pulsate as his head was about to explode.

Suddenly a wave of warmth entered him and spread all across his limbs and took it all away like an ocean erasing letters in the sand, leaving him in the bed with a body soft like jelly and his jaw went slack. It felt so good to be oblivious of the pain but the slumber was the thing trying to kill it. He didn't want to sleep.

"Daddy?" he slurred and let his head roll on the soft pillow.

"I'm here." a voice answered while a hand just as soft caressed his hair, twinned some of his strands and the other wiped the tears still welling down his cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere."

Once again the terrible thoughts of all this being a lie haunted him and he opened his eyes to searched his surroundings. Every corner, every wall, door, chair, nothing was safe until he made sure it was so. Precautions were important, one couldn't be certain with all those drugs running through ones system.

"Oi." John murmured and cupped his face firmly to keep his head in place, eyes warm but firm. "You're safe. I'm making sure of that, alright?" The boy sighed loudly and reached out his hand to make sure of his father's existence. The small hand caressed the doctor's cheek and shoulder until he was positive and a giddy smile crept into John's face. Hamish could finally breath properly as green eyes met blue.

"Where's dad?" he asked with a hurting throat and swallowed dryly. The doctor sat down on the edge of the bed and took his little hand in his, kissed the short fingers that was just as chubby as his own and watched as Hamish started to wake up for real.

"He's at the yard." he answered. "He'll be back in an hour or two." A straw tickled the side of the boy's mouth and he took a couple of mouth full of water to ease his throat. But there was an odd tension in the room and Hamish could read the worry of his father's greyish face. Something was bothering him and he couldn't quite figure out what, or if he even wanted to know. The cup was placed back on the side table and John sighed loudly. Hamish expected the worst.

"Hamish." he started and rubbed his thigh with a firm hand, a lump grew in the boy's stomach. "Soon, a therapist and a police will visit you and you and them are gonna talk about what you've been through." A nervous frown appeared on the boy's face and he swallowed a weak moan. "I can be there if you want to, but I'm not gonna speak much. You need to tell him everything that M... the kidnapper said, did and tried to do because we need to know, okay?" He bit down hard and felt the pain begin in his chest and stomach.

"Why?" he quaked and tears started to burn the back of his eyes, he tried to look away but then his daddy did something unexpected. The mattress shifted and Hamish moaned painfully as his leg moved inside the braces. But what John did was worth the pain, he crawled down beside him and wrapped his arms around his bruised body and Hamish could bury his nose in his chest, breathing in the smells of home and tea.

"Because what ever he did, you'll need help to live with those memories. And that's something me and dad can't do. The copper will be here to take notes, they'll need the information for the case and close it properly, and to know what to do with Sebastian." That name made him tremble and he crawled a little closer to his chest.

"So dad's..."  
"He's with Greg, interrogating him." John answered and rubbed his side carefully so he wouldn't put pressure on the broken ribs or disturb the tube. "Taking care of business." The thought of the man that Hamish had opened his heart for and then had it stepped on made his tears well over and he shut his eyes tight. A pair of dry lips was pressed to the top of his head and he heard the small sob leave his father, that hurt him more than the memories.

"Don't." he cried and grabbed his collar, shook it lightly. "Don't cry, daddy. Please."

"I'm not." John lied and giggled as he wiped both their tears. "I'm not crying. It's just raining." Hamish smiled despite the pain in his face and sniffled miserably. "It's just..." he sighed loudly. "It's hard for me to, love. Me and dad were so worried and... seeing how injured you was when Greg found you only made us more scared." The breath left him with a loud huff and he kissed his son's forehead. "But you're back now. And we need to repair the damage that those men has done. You can't carry around on this all by yourself. It's gonna be hard, but me and dad will help. You're not alone in this, Hamish. You'll never be alone." A small whine left the poor boy as he let the dreadful memories back in his head once more. There was one thing he needed to be before this meeting. Prepared. He was not going to cry in front of people he didn't know. Never ever. His heavy head fell to the side and he stared into the pattern of John's shirt, he followed each stripe with a shaking finger and circled every button while tears fell.

"He... um.. I think I've killed people, daddy." he said with a small voice so full of helplessness and pain it made John flinch.

"No, no!" he said quickly and kissed the top of his head again. "You did no such thing." But the damage was already done and Hamish's face bundled up into a tight mess of reddening skin with bruised patches, tears and snot.

"How many died? He.. he told me I had to choose. You or a lot of other people." He could hardly talk anymore and John tried to silence him but the words kept pouring. "I didn't want people to die. Least of all you. You, dad, Greg, granny and Mycroft." He chocked and started to tremble violently and John had to hold him down. "How many died?"

"Hamish." John cried and crawled down to his eye level. Two warm hands cupped the boy's cheeks and his father's blue eyes drilled into his, eyelashes glistening by the tears clinging to them. "You didn't kill anyone. You weren't responsible for anyones death. Do you understand me? You can't blame yourself for this." He kissed away the tears before pressing their foreheads together. "Please Hamish. You have no idea how hard your life will be if you do that." The boy closed his hurting eyes and hiccuped by the sobbing, at the moment trying to contain himself. "You're a brave boy, love. And so intelligent. We have a long way to go to get over this but I know we all will be able to get over this. Do you think so too?" It took some time, tears needed to be shed and the sobs were hard to smother, but Hamish nodded. It was a certain nod, a brave one and John made a noise between a sob and a giggle, brushed away some strands of hair and pecked his lips. Hamish giggled and for the first time in a year he didn't wipe his mouth after a kiss from his fathers. The blue-green eyes met his and John could see the little sparkle of hope nest in those wonderful colours. "You wonderful, wonderful boy." he murmured happily and felt his chest clench of all the emotions ripping him apart.

But that giggle. It had punched him right in the heat and he would tear down mountains, dry out oceans to hear it again. That wonderful little laugh that he thought it would take weeks before it reached his ears. There was high hopes for Hamish after all.

* * *

The detective let out a huge breath before pushing the door open. Whatever waited behind it after his visit at the yard was frightening to say the least. He'd left Hamish in a bad state. The small vessel had been shaking and twitching in terrible nightmares. So terrible that Sherlock quickly fled the room as soon as he got the call from Greg. He just couldn't watch Hamish suffer like that. Even less imagine that this was his son now. Every night for the upcoming months would be like this. Night terrors, panic attacks, flashbacks, screams, sobs. He couldn't even think about it.

The door slowly opened and he stepped inside with a painful claw clenching his heart. Even his stomach hurt and it felt so... human. There were no medical reason for the pain. Only something his mind had created for all the worry he was feeling. He did not like it. But as soon as he stepped into the room he was met by something he did not quite expect. His son was sitting up in the bed, leaning back to the folded bed and hungrily snacking on a small bag of crisps.

And he was smiling.

Sherlock nearly stepped back and turned his head to John who was sitting by the bed talking happily to him, joking and teasing. The detective found himself staring when Hamish suddenly turned to him and his smile, still weak, slowly turned wider on that bruised face.

"Hello." Sherlock smiled and unbuttoned his coat as he made his way over to the bed. The difference was so huge from yesterday he could hardly believe this was the same boy. He just wondered how long it would last. His son just smiled and reached out the arm that wasn't in a sling at the moment and grabbed his arm to pull him into a hug. Sherlock grinned and put both his arms around him, but something was off. The little body reeked of chemicals and penicillin and the detective started to understand. Hamish wasn't really right. He was pumped with medications and when he pulled back he could see his eyes swimming in sweet bliss.

"They're filling me up with rainwater." he giggled and pointed to the IV bag. "D'you think I'll be as grey as the clouds when they're done." John gave him a forced laugh but Sherlock could see the misery hiding behind it.

"Maybe." he answered with a weak voice and ran a hand through his hair.

"I'll rain when this is over." Hamish smiled and his head rolled back and forth over the mattress. "Maybe even thunder." He made a thundering sound and pointed at Sherlock with a slender finger. "I'll shot lightnings at you both." The hand fell back on the table and crushed one of the crisps. "My head feels weird." John grinned and Sherlock hated him for it. This was no laughing matter.

His son was drugged!

And Sherlock could recognise himself in that behaviour way back in his life. Now he knew how Mycroft felt when he found him like this. He rubbed a hand across his face and sighed loudly and Hamish observed him carefully. Eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed he didn't look happy about this.

"Are you cross with me, dad?" he asked and tilted his head to the side, watched him through thick eyelashes and blinking irregular. "Because you should know.." he took a deep breath thought the nose and jolted as the pain in his chest appeared once more. "I don't like it when people are cross with me. I pickpocket them! Just like I did with mr Villain." Another deep breath and he closed his eyes, let his head loll back the the mattress. "And look where that got me."

It seemed to have stopped and Sherlock turned to John again, saw the tears falling down his cheeks. He did a nice job hiding them from Hamish that at the moment tried to pick up a crisp that laid an inch away from the spot he was aiming at.

"The pain was worsening." he murmured. "The healing progress can be hellish on one so small so... the increased the doze. He's been both hallucinating and talking rubbish for an half hour now."

"Oi!" Hamish shouted and looked angrily at John. "It's not rubbish when the words you speak are true!"

Sherlock swallowed thickly and looked passed the similarities between his years of addiction and this moment. After all Hamish was in need of this, Sherlock wasn't back then. He gave him a crocked smile and caressed his dark hair and Hamish leaned into the touch.  
"I don't think you'll rain, Hamish." he murmured and leaned down to kiss his clammy forehead. "And I'm not cross with you, tosser. How could I be?" Hamish stuck out his tongue and made a wet raspberry.

"You're always cross with somebody, why not me?" Sherlock blinked and fought hard to keep the corners of his mouth curling upwards.

"Because I love you and I would never be cross with you." he said sharply and took his hand in his. "Don't you ever doubt that." Hamish huffed but smiled happily. It wasn't very often he had the privilege to hear those words coming from him.

"Good for you." he sighed and looked like he was about to nod off and as on cue John tilted the bed back a fraction, making him sink into the pillow and only looking more exhausted. He took a pair of shallow breaths and stared at his sparse fingers as he wiggled them. Observing them like they were some sort of experiment and soon he started to nibble his bottom lip like something was bothering him. "Is it possible to fall asleep and never wake up?" The doctor twitched as he heard that question and looked up at Hamish's face, truly devastated by it.  
"Why would you ask such a thing?" he asked alarmingly and grasped the bed frame hard. Hamish shrugged and stared at the white roof, didn't even seem bothered by the thought of death.

"Because... I kind of wished it would happen." he answered truthfully. "Before Greg had me. It just hurt so much. I just wanted to fall asleep... and not wake up." Then he nodded off, drifting away and John whimpered loudly and looked up at Sherlock, mortified and and the brink of defeat and all this made Sherlock uncertain. John had always been the strong one, keeping everyone at bay when things took a turn for the worse. But now.

"Please, John." he begged. "Keep it together." But the doctor pressed the heals of his hands to the hollows of his eyes and groaned loudly as he folded in on himself. "Don't." But the harm was already done. The man fell backwards down on the chair and whimpered shamelessly and Sherlock blinked, made an uncertain moved around the bed to join his side. "John?" He placed a comforting hand on his trembling shoulder and dug hid fingers into his hard muscle, hoped that helped. There wasn't so many options he could turn to after this that came to his mind. But the doctor seemed to cope surprisingly well. He lowered the shaking hands from his face and Sherlock saw that not a tear had been shed. The warm fingers brushed over his own as John grasped his hand resting on the strong shoulder.

"He's getting there." he murmured under his breath. "As soon as the medication lightens up they'll call for a therapist, and Greg..." he took a huge breath. "And Greg can come and take notes. Anything to lock up that bastard that handed him over to that creep." The sound of Sherlock clearing his throat made John wake up from the hatred and he tore his gaze from the broken body on the bed to look at him.

"Sebastian.. " the detective started with a voice and sat down at the edge of the bed, still holding on to John's hand. He licked his dry lips and choose his word very carefully. "He didn't know." The tired curls fell over his pale forehead as he bowed his head. The interrogation wasn't what he'd quite expected, but Sebastian didn't lie a single time during the meeting. "Sebastian was an idiot of young man who wanted an end to his father's mistreatment to the family. He and his mother's been beaten every day since he was three. He found Moriarty through an anonymous contact and hired him to kill his father. To bring an end to the madness." Sherlock huffed and scratched his jaw. "The price was Hamish. Moriarty provided him with an employment at the school. In return Sebastian gave him keys and codes to the printers, his former workplace. But he didn't know what Moriarty wanted with Hamish. He assumed a ransom. But not this."

John stared at him like he'd just grown a horn between his eyes and his brows knitted together. He didn't know what to do with this information so Sherlock kept on talking.

"Sebastian was the one to break him out. He killed the guards, got Hamish out but didn't make it far before Greg found them and chained him to the wall. It's because of him that this started, and possibly the reason that Hamish's still alive. Greg would never have gotten through that door if Sebastian hadn't been there first to unlock it."

John laughed. It wasn't a sane one and he pulled his hand from the grip and started rubbing his thighs with strong grips as his head seemed to dislocate from his neck. It rolled back and forth with the chin pressed to his chest as the rumbling giggle just seemed to spew out of his mouth. But slowly they started to turn into sobs and tears dripped onto his jeans.

"He was a completely sane man, John." Sherlock continued. "And the way he spoke about Hamish... It seemed like he was really fond of him."

"Are you defending him!?" John fumed and lifted his heavy head, reveal his messy face and eyes dark of pure hate. Sherlock didn't as much as blink.

"What wouldn't one do for family?" he murmured in response and John tossed himself back in the chair with a loud smirk that Sherlock had never heard before. The doctor shook his head in disbelief and pulled his hair by the roots. "I'm not taking his side John. I just think we should be reasonable about this. He is going to be convicted for assisted kidnapping, hiring an assassin, falsified identity, but I don't think we should add more to the list. The man is young. Seven years in jail is enough for him. He's full of regret. And..." He took a deep breath and turned to their sleeping son. "That man that Hamish befriended, I don't think he was false. I think Sebastian showed the real self and... you should have heard his apologies, John." The doctor laughed again and shook his head.

"He got to you too?" he grinned and rubbed his eyes to wake himself up from this madness. "Are you taking his side, Sherlock?"

"Of course not." Sherlock murmured with a hard face but frowned at his husbands anger.

"That man is one of the reasons we're sitting here!" John fumed and signed his hands at the bed where their were boy currently sleeping.

"Yes." Sherlock said simply and blinked. "He is. And we should be thankful that this is where we are and not at the morgue, don't you think?"

"This would never have happened if that sub hadn't handed him over!" John belted and flew up from his chair, chest rising and falling by his quickened breaths and the vein on his tensed neck pulsed urgently.

"Then someone else would!" Sherlock said and managed to remain calm. Why didn't John understand? This wasn't a try to save the poor man in custody, but Sherlock had spoken to the man and he'd never stumbled upon someone reminding him so much about John. Sebastian was caring, not in anyway ever tried to hurt Hamish physically. Moriarty had lied, told him that he wanted Hamish for a simple ransom and Sebastian had believed him. His father had died in a staged accident two hours after Hamish's kidnapping and after the murder he'd gone suspicious. In an act of kindness he'd decided to save their little boy, so visited the basement of the printers with nothing more than a pocketknife in defence and when he saw the heavily armed guards he'd realised that he would never get to him without killing, even if he didn't want to. Three guards had died under his hands and as he expected to find their little boy waiting for the ransom to be payed while sitting locked up without a hair on his head bent he found something else. Seeing Hamish he'd realised his mistake.

Sebastian wasn't a hero, not a coldblooded murderer, only a man caring so much for his family that he'd taken a stupid decision to keep them safe. Not even Sherlock could place hatred upon a man who'd acted with so much courage and kindness, but he still didn't like him.

He explained this to John, carefully avoiding to stub any toes or tricker any larger emotions and the doctor seemed to be taken aback by it all. Speechless he fell back on the chair with a trembling hand pressed to his lips. Slowly he started to change his mind about this man he'd never met and tears spilled down his cheeks.

"We don't need to show him any sort of friendliness." the detective murmured. "More than that we're thankful that he actually saved Hamish during the dissolution of our struggle. If Moriarty had hired someone else I'm not so sure it would have ended the same way." John laughed and shook his head again, looked up at his husband with eyes glittering in tears.

"This is not like you, Sherlock." he grinned while tears fell.

"No." the detective smiled and reached out for John's hands which John offered. "But you've taught me kindness and sometimes it's worth using." His husband laughed and pulled him down until he could kiss those beautiful lips and Sherlock smiled before crashing in on them. "And Lestrade wouldn't let me kill him on sight so I kind of had to listen to his confession." Once again his husband laughed and his head fell to Sherlock's thin shoulder. There he rested for a moment, let the last couple of tears fall and drew the deep breath to calm his racing heart.

"I love you, Sherlock." he murmured and wrapped his arms around his neck. The detective smiled and took a deep breath in the ashy blind hair under his nose.

"Feelings are mutual, John."

* * *

**Tell me what you think! I'm always happy about reviews. And there are still chapters to come. **


	24. Holmes and Watson

**So here we are again and I want to thank all the readers who's followed it this far :) The end is closing in but there are more chapters to go, I promise. **

* * *

The hospital hours seemed to be ticking with longer seconds than usual after two days in this room. Sherlock found himself staring at the wall clock above the door every fifteen minutes to keep a close check on how long his boy's been sleeping. Still heavily sedated and high on antibiotics no nightmares was bothering him, a relief on its own but not nearly enough to make the parents feel calm about the current situation. Small twitches and jolts travelled through the seven-year-old boy and less so a murmur of something incoherent. John was still occasionally visiting his side to smother the wild hair or adjust the tubs that tangled around his arm or fingers and Sherlock himself sat on his chair, still in his coat, and held onto the hard cast that covered the right arm. Once and a while he would glance upon the braces where thick screws borred into the flesh, holding the small pieces of bone in place for the ankle to heal properly and he wondered how long it would be before he could walk properly again.

John was making his fourth route this morning to the break room, coming back with two steaming cups of tea and settling them down on the side table that at the moment was overfilled with half full bags of sweets or snacks that Hamish been munching on when he had a appetite. He avoided the hospital food as much as possible, the nutrition was worse than the cat food he complained after biting into the meatloaf he'd been served and Sherlock agreed. Luckily Mycroft had called and told them that in the future food from the hospital wouldn't be served at room 15C. From now on a man from an unknown source would show up every fourth hour with a bag of take out from one of the fancier restaurants of London.

Hamish didn't eat much though, he nibbled what was served but the fever didn't let him fill his stomach. But as long as John wasn't worried, Sherlock wasn't worried. Every crisp he swallowed was at least better than nothing. But today he needed all the energy he could get. Any minute now they would be called and in the need to leave for the therapist's office and John worried about Sherlock when the meeting started. Sherlock was protective when it came to Hamish's wellbeing, and that was something that would be affected when he started to tell them about what he'd been through. Whatever the detective did he couldn't save Hamish from this.

This day Hamish woke up with an usual jolt in panic and whimpering in fright and pain. This time Sherlock was the one to greet him, to secure the area and keep him in good thoughts. John was impressed to say the least when he saw his husband handle such an emotional situation. The way he caressed the boy's hair and cheeks, the words he chose to bring the anxiety down a notch and the small smiles that gradually was mirrored by Hamish. But this was an easy task. Now they were allowed to stop his mind from travelling, in ten minutes they weren't.

Hamish was currently pushed a wheelchair to reach the room of the therapist, the most fun he'd had in days according to him as John speed up and slowed down in intervals in the long corridors. His laugh echoed between the glass doors and pale walls and Sherlock grinned every time he heard it.

"Faster, faster!" he shouted and held on tight with his left hand to the armrest. But John held a good speed, not wanting to cause any more pain to his broken bones or make him more dizzy than the medications already had. But the fun was soon to be over when they stepped into the colourful room of the therapist. John pushed Hamish inside while Sherlock held the door open and the smile faded quickly as she saw the middle aged woman looking back at him with a thin smile on her pink lips. He lowered his gaze and pulled the blanket a little higher over his waist.

The room reminded him very much about the 'quiet room' at school. Armchairs facing each other, soft lights that made the room warm and friendly and a packet of kleenex on the small table for tears and snot. He knew very well what he was doing here, but he didn't want to. He flung out for the bar around the wheel and stopped the chair before they even got over the threshold and cleared his throat tiredly.

"I don't..." he whispered and turned his head to look at Sherlock's shiny shoes. "Please.."

John crouched beside him and placed a warm hand on his wrist but Hamish didn't want to face him. He lowered his head even more and felt the pain in his stomach, he was not going to do this.

"Hamish." his father's soft voice murmured. "There's nothing to worry about. It's just us here." He shook his head and felt the strands of hair whip against his face in the action. John sighed and moved a little closer. "Thirty minutes. That's all, and then we can go back to the room and watch some movies."

"I don't wanna watch movies." Hamish growled stubbornly and felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, carefully pressing down on his sore muscle.

"I can hold you the whole time." his dark voice rumbled as he rubbed his thumb back and forth. The boy was just about to shout that he didn't want to be held but choked on the first syllable. "I will not let you go." But he continued to shake his head and nothing they said seemed to convince him. Not even the therapist could help, Hamish just refused to talk about it. It was too painful, to scary and he would feel vulnerable thinking about it, even shameful.

"Hamish." John whispered with his lips brushing his son's bruised temple. "We're here to help you. And believe me when I tell you, it will hurt more not to talk about it." This time he didn't shake his head, just stared at the metal surrounding his leg and felt his bottom lip quiver.

"Pick me up." he stuttered and reached out for Sherlock's neck and the detective embraced him carefully. He left the chair and war pressed close to his father's chest. His little fingers found their way into the soft curls and he held o tight as Sherlock sat down with him.

The therapist had introduced herself as Mrs Gavin, but Hamish could call her Margret. She seemed nice, but he'd learned not to believe the first impression that quickly. Then there was a knock on the door and Hamish felt some hope as Greg entered the room with his thin smile and grey hair.

"Hello, Hamish." he beamed and fell down in a chair in the corner of the room, not participating in the meeting but only taking notes. Hamish blinked and leaned back to Sherlock's chest in hope of that he would hold him tight. He did and Hamish felt some safety in that.

"So, Hamish." Margret began as she leaned forward in the the purple armchair with the notebook in her hands, her strawberry blond hair fell over her shoulder and made her brown eyes look dark red. "You know this is a safe place, don't you. There's nobody here who wants to hurt you or make you feel scared." He nodded without making eye contact and grabbed the big hand that rested on his chest. "I'm gonna ask you some questions, to some you can just answer yes or no, others you need to give me a longer answer but we'll save those later, okay?" He nodded again and he felt John's hand caress his messy hair. "We'll take a break if it becomes to hard but for now we'll just begin, okay?" He didn't nod this time, just gave her a quick glance before lowering his head again.

The questions were easy, just checking in on his wellbeing and how he felt about the situation today. Margret kept writing down his answers with a professional face and Greg did the same with more pain. Then the therapist turned to the more hard questions and Hamish felt like ice formed in the bottom of his stomach.

"Could you tell me how it all began?" she asked. "When you meet this Sebastian?" He fidgeted in Sherlock's lap and turned to John with an uncertain stare. His father nodded with a weak smile but Hamish could see the sadness hiding beneath.

"I..." he began with a voice he'd never heard before, it sounded more like a child than ever before and he'd never heard himself so little. "I meet Sebastian in school. We were going to have a reading session every morning for an hour in the quiet room." Margret nodded and wrote somethings down, the ice in his stomach grew colder and heavier. "He um... seemed to be taking an interest in me and I, um... liked him. He wasn't like the other teachers. He was the only - friend - I had and..." He was about to say something about the book he was given but decided to keep that a secret, for now. There was no reason to talk about that.

"The day you were taken, what happened?" He lost control of his fingers that wrapped around Sherlock's hand and they fluttered around his father's wrist as he tried to speak.

"H-he took me for a walk outside school. Just t-to clear our heads and s-something didn't s-seem right ab-bout him. Before I knew it I... I.." He swallowed hard and gave a whimpering breath, forced his tears back. "He grabbed me and... a car appeared out of nowhere. There was a sting in my arm and then I.. I.." He couldn't bare himself to say the words so he turned to John who quickly wiped some tears away, that didn't help him so he pressed himself closer to Sherlock to bury his face in his jacket. "Then I woke up in a basement... " He told them about the villains words, his threats, songs, the darkness and the time he took the skull. In the corner of his eye he could see the woman frown at that and he choked in mid sentence. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the skull. "I... I tried to take it back but... he broke my arm and then he left me in the dark."

"Explain the room to me, Hamish. Tell me about how it looked like. What frightened you the most about it?"

"Um.." he trembled and felt an headache intrude as he thought about the cell. "Red walls, a green metal door. It had no windows. Thick pipes on the roof that always dripped. There was a mattress and a blanket, brick dust everywhere and flaked paint. The door made a sound every time someone opened it, that was the worst thing." Because he knew someone was coming every time he heard that creak and a clonk and he'd heard it every time he'd fallen asleep. The trembling got worse and he shook his head in panic. He didn't want this to continue.

"It's okay, Hamish." Margret murmured and leaned a little closer. "There's nothing to be scared of here."

"I don't want to." he mumbled and scratched Sherlock's hand with his broken nails.

"There's nothing to worry about, love." John whispered and rubbed his neck. "Nothing bad is gonna happen." But Hamish refused to say anything more. The next thing he had to tell about was the meeting with the map, the three pens, the threats, the people he'd chosen to kill, the phone, the call and lastly the beating. He couldn't bring himself to do something like that with this woman around. How could he trust her?

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked and wiped the tears that welled down the boy's cheeks, Hamish never noticed them fall in the first place. He shook his head again and held his breath. "You just need to tell us."

"Shut up." he growled and dug his fingers into the skin of Sherlock's wrist, making himself as small as possible on his lap. This had been harder than he thought. "I wanna go home." he whimpered and closed his eyes hard. "Please, let me go home." His chest started to burn by the shallow breaths and the arms around him tightened protectively. The room was slowly fading and he new very well he was having a panic-attack. Tears fell and the cries were smothered behind his tightly closed lips. He was not going to speak.

"It's okay to be scared, Hamish. Any child in your situation would be terrified." Margret murmured calmingly but those words lit something on fire inside the little boy.

"I am not scared, you imbecile!" he belted and felt the need to throw something at her but nothing was close by. The woman's brown eyes widened and she blinked in shock. "I'm bloody ruined! He made me choose who to kill! He threatened me and my closest and I couldn't do anything about it! I'm not scared, I'm angry!" He slapped Sherlock's arm and took a deep breath. "I can't storm out so you have to carry me, dad. We're leaving!"

"Hamish." John quaked and tried to take his hand but Hamish didn't.

"I said, we're leaving!" he fumed and to his relief Sherlock rose from the chair and left the room without a word. The corridor seemed colder and slimmer than before and the air thicker. The long deep breath entering his lungs didn't give him enough oxygen and the panic rose for each second until he was sure he was going to die. Before he knew it his face was forcefully buried to the nape of Sherlock's neck and he felt both his fathers embrace him, sniffing his hair, rubbing his back and it all seemed frightfully familiar to the day at the palace. Was he screaming?

"It's alright, handsome." Sherlock murmured into his hair and rocked him back and forth while he drew his thick but shallow breaths. "We're not leaving you." John sighed sadly and wiped the tears on Sherlock's shoulder when Hamish lifted his head, eyes wide and the breaths going more severe.

"I can't breathe." he whimpered and turned to John while latching out for his hand. "Daddy."

"Do like me, okay." John urged and drew a huge breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth. "C'mon, love. You can do that." He was unsure about that, but decided to give it a try when he saw the fear within his parents. "It's just a panic-attack, it's nothing to be afraid of." The huge breath hurt his lungs and broken ribs but worked wonders on his brain. Slow and steady the air cleared and the thick wail over his eyes disappeared. Then he started to cry. He felt embarrassed, vulnerable, like the biggest failure of the family. How could he, the son of the strongest men in London, disappoint his parents so? He wasn't worthy the names of Holmes and Watson when he couldn't even keep his sanity in place. What did Sherlock think about him really? The man who never cried or toppled. He must be ashamed of him right now.

"I'm sorry." he sobbed and held onto the detective's jacket, now ruined by tears and snot. "I'm so sorry."

"About what?" Sherlock asked and stroke his fingers through his hair. "You've done nothing wrong." But Hamish had some things to say about that.

"I'm not like you!" he cried in shame and lowered his head. "I'm nothing like you two! I'm weak! I cry all the time and I couldn't do anything to save all those people who died! I'm bloody useless."

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The words struck both parents like a dagger to the heart and John shook his head until tears splattered over all three of them. Sherlock started to quiver and he didn't know what to do with his hands, he didn't dare to touch their son and once again John could see the doubt of him appearing to be uncaring again.

"Hamish?" the detective gulped and finally cupped his sons face. Not caring about the people passing in the corridor, who listened or who would stare he told Hamish a story. "You need to shut up right now or I'll go really mad, d'you understand me?" he fumed. The boy hiccuped by all the crying but seemed to get it together when he heard those words and the anger he'd caused. "You are so terribly wrong right now that you're close to being an idiot so you better listen to me. We would never have found you if you hadn't given us those details over the phone. No one but a real Holmes would have seen those little things as something important. And who helped me calm daddy up when he woke up screaming and crying?" Hamish sniffled and felt his cheeks go pink in shame by the talking too, but Sherlock wasn't done. "Years ago he used to wake up night after nigh in panic and tears and it took time before that stopped, but eventually it did. Being able to cry is human, and I know no better human than a Watson. And those people who died. People die everyday even if we want to or not and those poor souls had nothing to do with you. Nothing what so ever. If you blame yourself for them you're not allowed to assist me in the lab anymore." Hamish gave a small laugh while tears kept pouring down his cheeks and Sherlock cracked a smile. "Are we understood?" Despite the fear and respect he suddenly felt for his father he suddenly felt better than he had in months. Right now he felt more worthy than ever about his last name and he nodded with a shaking smile on his lips.

It felt like a great claw had released the detective's insides and a huge shivering breath left him as he embraced his son again, let him cry out the last tears to his shoulder as he had trouble himself to keep his tears back. Suddenly those two were closer than they ever had and John watched it all with a very wet smile before he wound his arms around them both and kissed Hamish's soaked cheek. It looked like someone got through to him at last.

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**So leave a review and tell me what you think. Your words always makes me happy. **


	25. Blabbermouth of Baker Street

**This chapter would have been up much earlier if I hadn't broken my glasses :) I'm sorry for the wait. I had to write half of this with a headache because I had to concentrate my eyes so hard. Hope you like it. **

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They got to go home two days later with a strict remiss that Hamish had to come back and finnish the session with Mrs Gavin. There were still reports and mental diagnoses to be made and Hamish wouldn't get away from that. At the moment he was on prescription pills, two as he woke up for his mental health, one before bed so he could go to sleep, three a day for the pain, and five a day (if necessary) for any attacks that might occur.

Five wasn't enough.

But the christmas spirit seemed to ease it all for a bit. The shows on telly, the smell of fudge in the air and the pretty decorations in the flat made the boy smile everyday. Even if he was saved from that hell hole six days ago and nightmares and attacks killed his spirit he was not letting anything destroy christmas, and when he was given the good news that they were leaving London for the holidays he would have jumped up and down if his leg hadn't hurt so much.

Everyone of importance was going. Mrs Hudson, Greg and even Mycroft would pop by on christmas morning. Hamish could imagine their stay. Every morning the house would smell of pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausages and they would find Granny by the stove making cookies and sweets. John and Hamish would decorate the tree and he would be lifted to the roof to put in the star, the best moment of christmas in his opinion. Greg would curse over the fireplace as he couldn't light it and mess with the antenna over the telly to get anything on and Sherlock would read him stories whenever he asked him too and bring him to the attic to look search dead bats and go through old photo albums of the Watsons. It might not seem like much, but to Hamish it was one of the best things he could wish for at the moment. There was a calming vibe to the whole thing and it was something that didn't happen often, therefore something to value.

But for now and a week forward there was only London and Baker street. But even how much John wished he could say things was back to normal, that would be a lie. The situation was tensed, everyone walked around Hamish like on thin ice and chose their words carefully like anything would trigger him. No one accept Sherlock and John understood that talking like everything was normal would keep his mind of the accident better than anything else. Mrs Hudson had unfortunately stubbed more toes than anyone else and she visited their flat more less which hurt Hamish more than her words, after all she was a very good talked and hardly never thought before she spoke. Unfortunately her absence had started to show more and more, and Hamish missed her.

The boy sat on the sofa, leg levelled on a big pillow on the table and arms still in a sling, watching an old documentary while snacking on roasted corn. Greg kept him company and entertained him by throwing corn in the air and catching it in his mouth. He'd spent every night at Baker street since his home was blown to pieces, something they hand't yet told the boy. At the moment the copper slept in Hamish's room while the little boy himself spent the nights between his parents in their room. Hamish didn't questions his stay either.

"Your turn." Greg grinned and chewed his corn. Hamish tried but throwing with the left hand seemed impossible so Greg had to throw for him. On the fourth try he actually caught one and Greg cheered loudly when there was a soft knock on the doorframe and they both turned to see the old woman.

"Oh, hello." she smiled nervously and avoided contact with the little boy, afraid to make him cry or scream again by just meeting his gaze. "I made to much pie again." she lied and showed them the dish in her hands. "I though that you might want some."

"What kind of pie?" Hamish asked with the biggest smile he could accomplish, prepared to do anything to make her talk to him normally again.

"Oh, just something I threw together. Some cheese and chicken." The woman padded into the kitchen and placed it on the table, not humming a tune as she usually did. "I know you don't like broccoli, Hamish, so I left a side clear for you." The air was quickly filled with the aroma of her pie and he took a deep breath, felt his stomach rumble even if he could hardly eat, all those pills made him nauseous and he ate less than he ever had. With a longing sigh he tried to forget about it.

"Come and sit with us, granny!" he plead and rubbed his eye, feeling a bit dizzy as always after all those medications and now as hunger started to intrude it only made it worse. "Please, watch some telly!" The old lady squeezed her hands nervously as she reentered the sitting room and Greg tried to wave her over when she looked more and more hesitant. The wrinkled hands was about to go white by her furious squeezing and she looked older with that worry painted over her face.

"I don't know if I've got the time." she quaked with a fake smile and Hamish swallowed painfully.

"Please." he almost whined. "Just for a minute." Suddenly his head lolled back to the seat and onto Greg's arm who placed a hand on his clammy forehead, only keep an eye on the fever that'd been coming and going throughout these past days. One drastic change could be the sign of an infection so the boy was never left out of sight, something that Hamish really enjoyed at the moment. He hadn't been left alone a single time since the 'event', he panicked if he was left alone in a room. Solitude only reminded him of the blank walls and silence in the darkness. Just this morning Hamish had turned his back for two seconds when he tried to dress himself and John thought it would be a good time to get his medications. It wasn't. When Hamish had pulled the shirt over his head and faced the empty room the corner of his eyes had quickly darkened and the next thing he did was whimpering. John had returned to the room just to find his son out of breath and teared up, just on the edge of screaming. It took another hour to calm him down.

"Please, granny." he continued tiredly and the woman padded across the room with a warm smile, she couldn't say no.

"Alright then." she murmured and placed herself beside the little boy who's head had grown weary for a moment. Mrs Hudson took his little hand in hers and squeezed it lightly and in response Hamish heaved himself to the side until he landed against her instead. Finally his granny held him, she wrapped her arm around him and let him rest to her side. Her wrinkly hand brushed through his dark hair as they watched the telly and slowly his lids started to droop. "So where's your fathers? then?"  
"Daddy took a trip to the store." he answered with a croaky voice and took a breath as deep as his ribs would allow him of his granny's scent of eucalyptus, perfume that had aged on her viewer for years and silver polish. "Dad's upstairs, getting some of my stuff to move it to their room." He sighed loudly and blinked, nearly asleep at her side. "It's like going on a vacation to their bedroom. He's packing my bags so that they'll last for weeks down here." Mrs Hudson giggled warmly and looked up at the inspector.

"And how about you Lestrade, how are you finding the room for now?" she asked him and the man smiled, caressed Hamish's cheek lovingly with the back of his fingers before answering.

"It's fine. Hamish has a very comfortable bed. And the stars are very nice to look at just before I fall asleep." Nothing more than a twitch showed on Hamish's face when he heard that, otherwise it would have made him laugh.

"It's a terrible thing." Mrs Hudson tutted. "Your house being blown to pieces like that. It must have been hard on you."

There was no time to stop her before the damage was done and Greg clenched his jaw and felt his blood turn into ice. The little boy was staring at him, big blue-green eyes widened by fear and the brain behind them was quickly picking up the pieces that soon would lead him to the only conclusion there was. The puzzle was quickly solved and Hamish sat up slowly and gave a frightened whimper.  
"That's what he did?" he asked with a small voice, so broken and fragile and his chest rose and fell faster and faster. Greg bowed his head until he was in the same eye level and cupped Hamish's jaw, pinned him firmly as he tried to work out what to say.

"Okay now, listen..."

"He blew up your house!?" Hamish shrieked and tried to push him away. "He... He promised you wouldn't get hurt!" The breaths were getting shallow and the old woman beside him clasped a hand over her mouth when she realised her mistake. This one was the biggest one yet.

"I didn't get hurt!" Greg said quickly and shook his head, caressed Hamish's hair as he tried to keep him still. "Alright, I'm okay. We're all okay."

"He didn't know that!" Hamish bellowed and tears glistened in the corner of his eyes, clung to his lashes and ready to fall. "What about the others!? Your neighbours!?" Quick steps echoed in the hall and Sherlock appeared in the door, ready for the upcoming panic-attack and when he saw who'd caused it he sighed in hurt. Even he pitied the old woman that always seemed to mess with Hamish's fragile mind. "He said he wouldn't do that!" The hyperventilation kicked in, his body quaked and sweat broke out on his already clammy face. "He.. He said he wouldn't touch you!" Suddenly his lips parted and eyes grew even larger as he came to realisation. "Oh god.. Oh god! Your neighbours! Those were the ones I killed!?"

"Hamish!" Sherlock shouted and took three long steps across the room, took a hold of the braised leg before kicking the low table aside. "Mrs Hudson, Greg. Out! Leave!" Lestrade collected the shaking woman and helped her on her feet before leading her out of the room, trying to comfort her the best he could while Hamish flickered his eyes over the room to secure the place. "Hamish!" Sherlock called and kneeled before him blocked out the room by putting himself in the way for his sight. "Look at me!"

"A lot of people lived there!" he yelled while tears streamed down his cheeks. "How.. How many died!" He was crying now, sobbing violently and Sherlock rubbed his temple. Seeing his son like this was almost unreal, so fragile and afraid for something that now was erased from the world. He would always be hunted by that ghost and the only thing that could keep it away now was medications and familiar people around.

"Look at me!" Sherlock shouted to overpower his son's yells and sobs and the boy jumped on the seat, found his father's gaze and stuck with him while breathing heavily. "You need to stop! Right now!" The boy sucked in a breath and closed his mouth, jaw shaking and tears flooding. "You are not thinking rationally right now. You're scared and stressed."

"I'm not scared!" Hamish screamed and tried to push his father away by kicking him in the chest with his functioning leg. Sherlock wobbled on his knees but managed to keep balance, grabbed his foot when he started to squirm on the sofa, grunting and whimpering as Sherlock tried to hold him down. This sorts of attacks were rare, when they occurred Hamish would do anything to get away, even try to hurt anyone that tried to calm him. This wasn't the first time Sherlock was kicked, his chest and arms had earlier bruises from his son's fist and foot but it wasn't any of their faults. When Hamish became like this there wasn't many things that could bring him back, but Sherlock, with his genius mind, had found one solution. He picked him up, hurried through the flat until he reach the bedroom and tore up John's bedding until all the duvets and pillows laid in a big mess. He sat himself with the fighting boy pressed to his chest in the middle of the bed and wound them in the blankets and sheets and soon they were buried in all the soft fabrics and surrounded by warmth.

Here it was, the great solution to Hamish's mental escape and his way back to sanity. But it wasn't the warmth or the soft fabric that did the trick. It was the smell of home. These sheets had a wonderful mix of their detergents, their shampoos and soaps, the hair oils for Sherlock's curls, a small ounce of chemicals from experiments, the smell coming from the bakery that filled the air every time they opened their window. It was the perfect blend to remind Hamish were he was and eventually he stopped squirming, the grunts eased and soon he went completely boneless in his arms, just whimpering and hiccuping. His blue eyes stared into nothingness and Sherlock's shirt was now ruined by all sorts of body fluids.

"You're here, Hamish." he whispered and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "You're here with me and daddy. You can feel safe with us." Hamish closed his mouth and took a deep breath through his nose as his jaw started to tremble. A small sob left him and he pressed his cheek to his father's chest.

"I don't like being scared." he whimpered as a confession and latched on to Sherlock's collar.

"Neither do I." he whispered with his lips pressed to the top of his son's head. "But we are sometimes."  
"You're never scared!" Hamish cried angrily and closed his eyes hard to stop the tears, he'd made a fool out of himself to many times this week. Sherlock gave a small huff of a laugh and shook his head.

"Are you joking? Of course I have." he smirked with a clenching feeling around his gut. "What d'you think I was when you disappeared?" There was no answer to that question accept a very small hiccup and Sherlock squeezed the hand that gripped his collar, trying to comfort his little son. "It's okay to be scared and it's nothing to be ashamed of." A small sound forced up the boy's tight throat which he quickly swallowed and he opened his mouth to breath again.

"You were scared?" he asked and opened his eyes again, licked his lips as a warm feeling filled him, maybe he wasn't so different from his dad after all. Snuggling a little closer and felt his heart rate slow, the smells around him kept his mind in place, and he and his dad was closer than ever. Not by body but by mind, something Hamish didn't think would happen until his head was fully filled with the information he needed to be exactly like his detective of a father.

"Of course I was scared." the detective whimpered, still managing to keep that weak but warm smile on his lips. "I was terrified. I didn't know if I would ever see you again." He swallowed the lump tat had formed in his throat and hugged him a little tighter. "You're the most precious thing I have and I don't know what I would do without you. We all were scared. Just look at my hands." They both looked down in his bandaged hands and Hamish had wondered why there were like that. The reason he hadn't asked was because he thought someone had done that to him, and maybe he didn't want to know who. "When I thought I couldn't do anything to find you I smashed my hands into beakers because if was so mad and afraid. I wanted you back so badly so I didn't need to be that anymore, and I destroyed half the lab because of it. We do crazy things when we're afraid, handsome. Some people smash and destroys, others cries, kicks and screams and we'll just have to work with our fears to overcome them. It's okay that you cry and get these attacks, but it will not always be like that. You'll win over this." The little body tensed in his arms and a second later a long, painful wail left him and Sherlock started to rock them back and forth in their nest of blankets. Memories were haunting him again and the pain in his wounds and mind chewed him thoroughly before it was about to eat him up.

"When I met Sebastian..." he cried and pressed his face to his chest like he was trying to hide. "He gave me a diary. And... and the things I wrote... I think it was what made all this so huge.."

"Tell me." Sherlock plead and kissed his forehead. Now when Hamish was talking at last he wanted him to keep going for as long as possible, just to blow some steam and lighten his heart. The longer he carried it the heavier it would get. The boy sniffled and took a deep breath, suddenly ready for this.

"That day I was with Mycroft.. He showed me his work. I saw the screens and every area that his security system covers. When I woke up from that headache I remembered it all and there's like... a map.. in my head that tells me exactly how to move so Mycroft wont see me..." He sobbed and made a loud grunt through his teeth, not knowing if it was in pain, fear or both of them. "I wrote about that in my book and... when the villain read it he said that I was in much greater value after that. This thing wouldn't have been so big if Mycroft hadn't shown me. If my head wasn't so bloody stupid." Eyes tears behind Sherlock's closed lids and he buried his nose in his son's hair while he was told the story. Why he'd said over phone that something was wrong with him started to come clear even if he'd already worked it out, he just didn't have the heart to interrupt the boy, John'd said that Hamish needed to talk about it himself. But even if this ability was dangerous and had already put him in a bad situation Sherlock found himself proud that his little boy had his brain. There wasn't just bad things that would follow that intelligence, his future as a detective looked very bright and that still seemed to be Hamish's plans. And with John's heart their son might even be better than Sherlock.

But Hamish's wasn't done with his story. The uncharacteristically small voice told him about his abilities, not leaving any details out and it was like secrets poured out of him and Sherlock listened carefully as he rocked back and forth. He heard about the map, how Hamish had drawn direction through London to help 'Mr Villain' get to all the destinations unseen and the little boy apologised over and over

"He told me he would hurt anyone I loved if I gave him the map." Hamish sobbed. "But he blew up Greg's home. He couldn't have known if he was there or not. He could have killed him." He sniffled and cleared his throat. "And he said that nobody would get hurt but... He hurt all of you! He hurt you and daddy when he took me, he tried to kill Mycroft and..." A long whine left him again and Sherlock hushed him gently. "I know about Alice!" The crying started to become violent again and the detective rubbed his back, felt the plastered arm press to his stomach and the little body shiver. "Greg told me when I slept at his place. Everything left from Alice was in his flat... It's all gone now!" Sherlock scrunched up his face and groaned in despair, played with some of the strands of hair under his nose while breathing him in. "You've all been hurt, all because of that I gave him that map. But if I hadn't, you all would have been killed."

"Hamish." Sherlock whispered. "Listen to me. We all might have been hurt, but none of us as much as you. You need to stop worry about us and think of yourself a little, because everything will be alright. I promise you. Okay?" With a sniffle and a loud sigh Hamish seized to tremble, he swallowed the rest of his tears and tried to understand. Everyone around him kept reminding him of that he shouldn't blame himself but it was the hardest thing someone had ever asked him to do. It was a promise he'd made that he couldn't keep.

"I'm sorry." he sobbed into his father's silky shirt. "I'm really trying."

"I know you are, and you're doing really well. And remember that no one is blaming you. No one."

This outbreak had as always left the little boy exhausted, he blinked away the last couple of tears and before closing his eyes to block out the world. Sniffling he let go of Sherlock's collar and the detective took the hand, squeezed it comfortingly and held it to his chest. "You know that granny doesn't mean any harm, right?"

"I know." he croaked. "I really miss hanging out with her the way we did before."

"I know you do." Sherlock whispered and wiped his wet face. "I do too."

They sat there a couple of minutes more, making small talks until Hamish was to tired to speak and the detective rocked him into sleep. Then he held him some more, caressed his hair and rubbed his back while digesting what had just happened. Sherlock's deduction had been right, but not to his pride. His boy had the power to become invisible while walking the streets of London. Sherlock couldn't help himself to find that somewhat intriguing.

There was a soft knock on the door and Sherlock lifted his heavy head, tore his gaze from Hamish's dark hair and saw John standing in the doorway with arms wrapped around himself, but it wasn't the cold winter weather that had made him hug himself. With a warm smile the doctor made his way over to the bed.

"I met Mrs Hudson in the hallway." he whispered as an explanation to why he wasn't surprised to find them like this before he reached out to run a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked quickly and held onto Hamish head that started to slid off his shoulder. John sighed and lowered his gaze before rubbing the side of his face, shaking his head almost unnoticeably.

"That tongue of her must be cursed." he groaned. "She just don't know how to handle this." He looked up at Sherlock again, brows knitted together in worry. "She said it might be better if she doesn't come with us to the house."

"What? Why not?" Sherlock required with a horrified tone that made the sleeping Hamish whimper in his arms. "Hamish will be heartbroken if she doesn't come."

"I know, I know." John groaned and sat down on the edge of the bed carded a hand through Hamish's sweaty hair nibbled his bottom lip. "That's what I told her. She is coming, I managed to change her mind."

"Maybe I kind find a way to mix her lipsticks with glue." the detective snickered and his husband choked on a laugh, giggled silently so he wouldn't wake their son.

"Yeah, maybe." he laughed and bent down to press a kiss to Hamish's cheek, nuzzled his temple while circling his ear with his fingers. "Has he eaten anything?"

"Some roasted corn. He's been watching telly with Greg while you were gone." Sherlock swallowed and a small hum vibrated in his chest, John knew quickly that he had something to tell him and he straightened his back.

"What is it?" he asked worriedly and crawled a little further in on the bed. "Has he said anything more?" Sherlock nodded, leaned to his husband who placed an arm around him and told him. The story sounded different with his words but it was exactly the same as Hamish had told him. John listened intensely and kept playing with Sherlock and Hamish's hair. He wasn't surprised that it was exactly like Sherlock had suspected, but when he heard how Hamish's ability had come to Moriarty's knowledge he just sighed angrily. He knew the trust Hamish had put in Sebastian, to have it wrecked that way must have been awful to say the least. Their son was no more than seven when he had his heart broken in the most disgusting way one can imagine. Sebastian may have been a stupid young boy who only wanted to save his mother, but John would never in his life forgive him.

He placed his heavy head on Sherlock's shoulder and nuzzled his neck when the story was over, kissed his jaw before looking down on the sleeping Hamish who whimpered nervously in his sleep.

"I just want this to be over." Sherlock confessed tiredly. "I know I should say that but.. I just miss how he was before." His husband sighed and held him tight through the blankets.

"He'll get there eventually." he whispered. "We just have to be patient. And he's still in there. We can see him sometimes." The detective sighed happily and nodded.

"Every time he laughs." he agreed and kissed the top of his son's head once more. "I just wished I knew how to make him laugh all the time." John gave him a small giggle and pressed a kiss to his husband's cheek.

"You can begin with mixing glue into Mrs Hudson's lipsticks."

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**There we are. Tell me what you think by leaving a review :) They'll always brighten my day. **


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